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NO. EO, MAY, 1890. ENTERED AT CHICAGO POST OFFICE AS SECOND-CLASS MATTER 



CHICAGO: 

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MOINA 


OR 


AGAINST THE MIGHTY 







MOINA 


OR 

AGAINST THE MIGHTY 


BY 

Lawrence L Lynchs^ ' ' 

Author of “Shadowed by Three,” “Madeline Payne,” “The 
Lost Witness,” “The Diamond Coterie,” “Dang- 
erous Ground,” “Out of the Laby- 
rinth,” etc, etc 


ILLUSTRATED 



CHICAGO 

Laird & Lee, Publishers 
1891 


> 





\ 



1 


» 

Entered according to act of Congress in the year eighteen hundred and ninety- 
one by Laird & Lee in the office of the Librarian of 
Congress at Washington 


i 

' 

’I 





/ 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I 

The Letter and the Knife g 

CHAPTER II 

Spider and Fly 17 

CHAPTER III 

Master and Scribe 28 

CHAPTER IV 

Moina and Madeline 33 

CHAPTER V 

Sentence of Death 40 

CHAPTER VI 

A Lawyer^s Fee 50 

CHAPTER VII 

After THE Tragedy 54 

CHAPTER VIII 

The Anonymous Letter 59 

CHAPTER IX 

A New Home 65 

CHAPTER X 

Among THE Socialists 69 

CHAPTER XI 

Madeline is Retained 80 

CHAPTER XII 

A Spy 84 

CHAPTER XIII 

Princess Sacha 92 

CHAPTER XIV 

Drexel’s Perplexities 98 

CHAPTER XV 

Moina Turns Butteffly 104 

CHAPTER XVI 

An Infernal Machine 109 


CHAPTER XVII 

Smiles and Tears 1 15 

CHAPTER XVIII 

Detective Hurst 120 

CHAPTER XIX 

A Basket of Flowers 126 

CHAPTER XX 

Confidences 129 

CHAPTER XXI 

Moina’s Struggle 134 

CHAPTER XXII 

His Three Warnings 136 

CHAPTER XXIII 

The "Dagger in the Wood" 140 

CHAPTER XXIV 

A Cryptogram. 144 

CHAPTER XXV 

Missing 148 

CHAPTER XXVI 

The Detective Camera 155 

CHAPTER XXVII 

Seeking a Clue 158 

CHAPTER XXVIII 

A New Pursuit 162 

CHAPTER XXIX 

Madeline Payne the Detective 169 

CHAPTER XXX 

A Bird Ensnared^ 174 

CHAPTER XXXI 

Deep Waters X79 

CHAPTER XXXII 

A Night at Ohm’s 184 

CHAPTER XXXIII 

A New Terror 197 

CHAPTER XXXIV 

A New Victim 205 

CHAPTER XXXV 

The Twin Daggers 21 1 

CHAPTER XXXVI 

A Council of Three 223 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

Fernand Makofski— Late of Irkutsk 230 

CHAPTER XXXVIII 

A DETECtiVE “Prince” 234. 

CHAPTER XXXIX 

Beginning to Burn 238 

CHAPTER XL 

A Little Detective 243 

CHAPTER XLI 

Hosmir at Work 2^9 

CHAPTER XLII 

1 Begin to Understand 258 

CHAPTER XLIII 

Slaves of the Central Committee 266 

CHAPTER XLIV 

Strange Proceedings 276 

CHAPTER XLV 

Too Complicated 283 

CHAPTER XLVI 

A New Ally 291 

CHAPTER XLVII 

A Heart’s Awakening 301 

CHAPTER XLVIII 

Who Laughs Last 310 

CHAPTER XLIX 

Frank Price Speaks 316 

CHAPTER L 

Counterplotting 321 

CHAPTER LI 

Bludgeon Versus Cane 329 

CHAPTER LII 

A Successful Failure 337 

CHAPTER LIII 

A Passing Stranger 343 

CHAPTER LIV 

An Amateur’s Report 34 ^ 

CHAPTER LV 

What Little Hans Remembered 353 

CHAPTER LVI 

Crashaw’s Last Hand 3^0 


CHAPTER LVII 

Moina Asserts Herself 365 

CHAPTER LVIII 

Section Number Five 368 

CHAPTER LIX 

Vindicated 381 

CHAPTER LX 

The Last Assault 387 

CHAPTER LXI 

The Surrender 394 

CHAPTER LXII 

The Princess in Revolt 402 

CHAPTER LXIII 

Lifting the Veil 41 1 

CHAPTER LXIV 

A Mad Errand 425 

CHAPTER LXV 

Dissett 432 

CHAPTER LXVI 

What Minna Knew.... 441 

CHAPTER LXVII 

Preparing for the Fray 447 

CHAPTER LXVIII 

Only a Look 455 

CHAPTER LXIX 

Madeline’s Chase 461 

CHAPTER LXX 

Madeline at Bay ^69 

CHAPTER LXXI 

The Dagger at Last 474 

CHAPTER LXXII 

The Haymarket 482 

CHAPTER LXXIII 

To THE Rescue 4^2 

CHAPTER LXXIV 

At the Last Moment 497 

CHAPTER LXXV 

A Clearer Atmosphere ^02 

CHAPTER LXXVI 

Fair Harbor 


MOINA 


CHAPTER I 

THE LETTER AND THE KNIFE 

“Eh, what’s this? Oh, there ypu are, eh?’’ 

For answer only a sharp click. It seems to stimulate 
the speaker, and he puts out a hand and snatches up a 
revolver that has lain ready on a table beside the bed. 

The situation is not a common one, neither is it so un- 
common as many easy-going people would like to believe. 
A bed-chamber, large and luxurious; in the middle of the 
room a bed, in which a man sits very straight, with rum- 
pled hair and night-shirt awry. Close beside the bed, 
another man — large^ and muscular, one can see at a 
glance. His garb a coarse homespun; his face hidden 
behind a blue silk handkerchief, with holes cut through 
where the eyes look out, but with no opening for the 
mouth — one can breathe easily enough through that thin 
fabric, and it serves to muffle and change the voice 
wonderfuly well. Over the blue handkerchief a close- 
fitting silk cap is pulled down. The hands are gloved 
in coarse cotton, and one of them holds a big pistol pointed 
suggestively at the head of the occupant of the canopied 
bed, while the other puts a dark-lantern down upon the 
coverings at the bed’s foot, while he says coolly: 

9 


10 


MOIhlA 


"Better look at this gun before you make much fuss. 
What do you take me for?" 

"Umph!" grunts the occupant of the bed. "For a bur- 
glar, of course, and a confounded impudent one." And 
then, as he turns his attention to the weapon in his own 
hand, "Curse you! you’ve emptied my revolver! ’’ His 
eyes blaze with anger. Then he turns sharply upon his 
nocturnal visitor. "Well, what have you stolen?" 

The man in the mask started perceptibly. "Stolen!” 
Then with a drop of the voice, "Oh, nothing yet.” 

"Nothing! Well, why don’t you begin?” 

Then suddenly he sprang from the bed with the revolv- 
er clubbed in his hand. The movement overthrew the 
burglar’s lantern,' and the fellow drew back a pace, 
stooping to catch it as it fell. 

Then there was a blow, a fall, and the two men were 
rolling upon the floor in a fierce struggle. Presently 
the grasp of one of them relaxed and he lay upon his 
back, gasping under the strong hand of the other, who 
knelt above him grim as fate. 

"Look here,” said the champion, ”I don’t want to kill 
you, old man. But if you don’t stop this you’ll force 
me to it.” 

No answer; only the gleam of' angry eyes and an 
ineffectual struggle. Then, as he fell back, "Do you 
think," he panted, "that I’ll stand aside and see myself 
robbed?" 

The burglar uttered an oath, and put one hand to his 
head, which was aching dizzily from the blow dealt by 
the clubbed pistol. 

"I think you’re a guilty old fool, ” he muttered, looking 
about him uneasily in the semi-darkness, putting out his 
hand to draw the dark-lantern toward him, taking care 
to turn the open side upon the face of his captive and 







12 


MOINA 


away from the bed. Afterward the assailed man recalled 
the act. 

For a moment the two men were silent, each peering 
at the other. The blue handkerchief had been loosened 
in the struggle, and the fellow fingered it uneasily, keep- 
ing the other hand firm upon the old man’s throat. 

"What will you do if I let ye up?" he said, at last. 

"Protect my property," was the prompt reply. 

The unoccupied hand of the burglar brought into view 
the threatening revolver. 

"Look!" he said; "I could make a finish of you in half 
a minute with this, clean out the house, and get off 
safe. You know that. You’re alone ih this house. I 
might fire off this pistol half a dozen times, and it 
wouldn’t be heard outside through these thick stone 
walls. I might ’a’ gutted yer old plate-pantry instead of 
cornin’ here first. I might ’a’ drugged ye if I hadn’t 
been too confounded sure that ye was sound asleep. But I 
didn’t, arid here we are. You hain’t lost nothing, and I 
hain’t made nothing yet. Now, I’ll tell ye what I’ll 
do. You’ve give me a hurt. I’ll admit; and I want to 
get where I can ’tend to it." 

"Before it gets so big that we can identify you by it, 
eh?" 

"Ye can say that if ye like. The question’s this; 
Will ye stay right here fer a good twenty minutes and 
give me ye’s promise not to try any dodge to give the 
alarm while I get away?" 

"And if I won’t?" 

Click! spoke the weapon in the burglar’s hand. 

"I can’t stop to parley. If you won’t you won’t. 
You’ll stay here just the same, only you’ll stay so long 
that you won’t know when you got up. Come, one way 
or the other — which is it?" 

During this harangue Elias Lord had found time to 


THE LETTER AND THE KNIFE 


13 


think, and he now said, without any sign of fear, "I’ll 
stay!" 

The burglar shifted the bull’s-eye until it shone up- 
on a little bronze clock upon the wall. 

"It’s just half-past one,” he said. "Does the thing 
strike the hour?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, when it strikes two you may get up and be your 
own master. Sorry to leave you like this, but I’ll come 
again, perhaps." 

"Do," said the old man grimly. "I’ll be ready for 
you. " 

Elias Lord was not the man to break his word, even 
when it was extorted by a burglar, and he lay upon the 
floor almost motionless while long minutes ticked awa)^ 
The room was now in total darkness, and he could do 
nothing but think. 

What a fool he had been to stay in that great house 
alone! Why had he not a burglar-alarm? One thing 
was certain; he would be ready for the next visitor of 
that sort, he would see that nothing was lacking that 
could make his house secure. 

Tick! tick! How slowly the time went! It was not 
for his plate that he cared so much; and as for money — 
well, he would be a fool to have much money about him. 
But those papers — if they had been stolen! Well, he 
had learned another lesson. He would have one of those 
tiny safes, just such another as was in his private office, 
let into the wall of his bedroom. 

Tick! tick! tick! Would that clock ever strike? How 
like a fool he must look lying there in the dark, and 
his bed not two feet distant! He was getting chilly 
too. 

After all, had he not taken the wisest course? If Mrs. 
Ralston and Madeline Payne were to hear of this, would 


14 


MOINA 


they not fear to make his house their home? What 
would they say if they were greeted with such a tale? 

Tick! tick! He forgot about the time while he thought 
of the changes these two women would bring into his 
home, if only they could be prevailed upon to come. It 
had been a home to Mrs. Ralston when his wife was its 
mistress, and now that these two, his wife’s cousin and 
the fine young woman who had been her companion for 
more than two years, were returning to New York, why 
should they not come to him? 

They must live somewhere. They had asked him to 
find them a suitable house. For more than a year, ever 
since his wife’s death, this great house had been closed. 
He had lived in it almost alone. Yes; he would open 
the house at once. He would fill it with servants, refur- 
nish, repair. It should be ready for them. 

“One, two,” said the clock. 

He was on his feet in an instant. He groped his way 
to the mantel, found a match, lighted the gas, and 
dressed. He was really chill ed, and he hastened to touch 
another match to the fuel that laid ready in the open 
grate. 

As it began to crackle and blaze and send forth a 
ruddy glow, he stood before it stretching himself and 
enjoying its warmth. 

“I think I’ll look about a bit,” he muttered. 

What is it that salutes his gaze, and holds it, as he 
stands facing the bed? Something white and something 
coldly glittering. He goes toward it slowly, as if fas- 
cinated. He pauses by the side of the bed and looks 
and looks. 

“Great heavens!” 

He sits down weakly upon the bedside, and still stares 
at the thing that glitters in the wood just above the 
pillow. Was his visitor a burglar, after all? 


THE LETTER AHD THE KNIFE 


15 


Presently he puts up a hand and touches the gleaming 
thing. It quivers and vibrates. The touch displaces 
it, and he holds a long, keen, slender dagger, while the 
letter which it had pinned to the carved board above his 
sleeping head falls and lies before his startled eyes 
upon the pillow. So this was the true mission of the 
man whom he had mistaken for a mere burglar! 

Mechanically he lifts the dagger, examines its keen 
edge, its slender hilt. Ruthlessly he tests it upon the 
polished wood of the bed’s head. How it cuts its way! 
How pliant it is! how strong! 

Since his wife’s death these splendid rooms have been 
closed — all save his own apartments, the dining-room 
and library — and it has been his habit to breakfast down 
town, to lunch wherever it happened, and to dine and 
sleep in his own home. 

His cook and house-maid, the only servants he had 
retained, had asked and easily obtained permission to 
sleep at their homes, going at night *and returning about 
midday. 

‘‘How clearly I see it now!” he mused. "That man had 
no designs upon my valuables; and he had no wish to 
take my life. Why then did he risk his own safety, 
merely to place this letter in my room? Evidently it 
was to prove to me how entirely I was at his mercy, 
had he chosen to strike — how easy it will be to put an 
end to me at his pleasure. I realize now the gravity of 
the step I have taken: but it is taken. I shall not draw 
back; I could not if I would.” 

He put out his hand and took up the letter. Every 
word stood out in characters that were as plain as print, 
and the words were few: 

"Elias Lord — Sir: As the head of a new league for the 
oppression of the poor and the upholding of the rich, it is 


16 


MOINA 


in your power to say how far these oppressions shall go. 
Be warned in time. Use your authority wisely. Pay 
careful heed to this note of warning. Let it prove that 
you cannot escape us. Use your power to help us, and 
live. Harm us, and your last hour follows the deed. 
Our eyes are ever upon you. We never sleep." 

There was no signature. The strange document was 
written upon a plain square of white paper, and 
in a copy-book hand that was as characterless as print. 

Having read it, Elias Lord pondered long. He knew 
what this ghastly warning meant, and had no intention 
to treat it other than seriously. Sitting there, with the 
letter in his hand and the gleaming dagger before him, 
what he thought was substantially this: 

"Here am I, Elias Lord, with a goodly fortune, which 
I have won by my own industry and energy, with large 
interests in factories, and workshops, and foundries. 
Against me is a great faction of disappointed laborers, 
and of rascals who won’t labor, who have leagued to- 
gether to extort money from me, not because they have a 
right to it, but because I have it and they want it. 
They’ve been fighting me, and others like me, for years. 
And now, when I am finally driven in self-defense to 
take a stand against them, when 1 have allied myself to 
a society which promises me and my property protec- 
tion, they come with a deadly threat. 

"That the enemy is strong, and has its emissaries every 
where, is proved by their knowledge of the fact that I 
am an officer of the new league before I have been such 
three days. 

"So it is to be war, then — war between myself, single- 
handed but forewarned, and an unknown enemy. Very 
good. I have wronged none of them. I owe no man any- 
thing. I will fight for my own. Let them do their worst”! 


CHAPTER II 


SPIDER AND FLY 

On a bright day in late summer, in a pleasant house 
in the Belgravia district, a man is standing at an open 
window looking idly out upon the gay life of London — . 
looking, yet seeming not to see the whirl of ^brilliant 
equipages, the coming and going of the well-dressed 
throng. 

The room in which he stands is quietly luxurious and 
charmingly indicative of a dainty feminine presence, with 
its scattered books and magazines, its flowers in quaint 
bowls and vases, and its tiny alcove, wherein is a low 
rocker and a ribboned work-basket. But the brightness 
within and the brightness without are alike lost upon 
this man. 

He is tall and spare, and erect in spite of his age, 
which is far past middle-life. His face is pale, and has 
once been very handsome; the hair, brushed straight 
back from a high white brow, is fine and soft, slightly 
wavy, and so long that its curling ends rub upon 
the collar of his rather unfashionable frock-coat. 
His chin is beardless, and the thin cheek as smooth 
as that of a boy. The mouth is firm-lipped; the eyes 
dark, and capable of many expressions. The counte- 
nance, in short, is at all times refined, intellectual — that 
of a man well-born, well-bred. 

Usually the dark eyes look out upon the world with a 
dreamy melancholy, but sometimes they are lighted up 
with a strange intensity of scorn and bitterness and stern 
Moina — 2 1 7 


18 


MOINy^ 


resolve. At such moments the stately old man becomes 
another being. The erect form seems to expand with 
vital force, the slender hands are alive with nervous 
gesture, the thin lips set themselves in two scornful 
lines, the eyes flash and blaze and the slow voice grows 
ringing clear and strong with the enthusiasm that sways 
him. 

Such to see is Miles La Croix, as he stands that 
fine morning looking out upon fashionable London, 
and seeing it not. 

“Father!” A step, a voice, and the sound of a closing 
door are "not enough to rouse him from his reverie. 

“Father! " This time a firm white hand upon his 
arm brought him back to the every-day world with a 
start. And instantly a tender smile routed the dreamy 
look from his fine old face. 

“Ah! So you have been dreaming again, and I caught 
you fairly! Where now, father dear? But never mind; 
you shall confess to me by and by. You are wanted be- 
low, dear,” 

“Wanted below!” The old man passed his hand 
across his white brow and looked down upon the girl be- 
side him. “Who is it, Moina?" 

“Monsieur Passauf.” 

“Passauf!” The old man started. “Only he, my 
daughter?” 

“As yet. He spoke of Mr. Crashaw, as if he expected 
to find him here. Father," hesitatingly, “is there any- 
thing amiss?” 

“No, no, Moina. Amiss? Why, surely not! What 
could be amiss here?” He was already at the door, and 
he turned with his hand upon the latch. “It’s only a lit- 
tle discussion. Crashaw set the hour for it, and I — I 
had quite forgotten. You will remain here, my daugh- 
ter?” 


SPIDER ^ND FLY 


19 


The girl laughed lightly. 

“When did I ever intrude, father mine, when your 
guests were Jules Passauf and Mr. Crashaw?” Then, 
seeing the look in his eyes: — “So, dear, never mind. 
Mr. Crashaw is too statistical for impractical me; I 
suppose that is all. Don’t notice my whims. You know 
I am always ready at your call.” 

But as he turned and went silently out, she dropped 
into a seat beside the window, murmuring under her 
breath, “All the same I do. I detest you. Monsieur 
Rufus Crashaw!’’ She dropped her cheek upon her 
hand, and a very serious look crept into her face. “I 
wonder what they have come for?’’ she mused. “Oh, I 
wish they were not — ’’ She checked the rebellious 
thought and lifted her head. “I am an unworthy daugh- 
ter of my father,’’ she said aloud, “and a weak sister of 
the oppressed. ” She pushed the window further open 
and leaned out, looking up and down. “How beautiful 
it all is!’’ she sighed. And then she started back from 
the window. “Pshaw! he has spoiled it all! Ah, he 
has seen me. I must go and let him in. Ugh!’’ 

A moment later she was holding the street door wide 
open for a stout man who entered briskly and greeted 
her with a nod and a crisp — 

“How d’ye do. Miss Moina, ’’ pulling at a pair of ad- 
hesive gloves the while. “Fine day,’’ went on the new- 
comer. “By the way, congratulations are in order, of 
course. Wish you much pleasure in your good fortune, 
Miss La Croix. 

“Thanks,” said the girl composedly. 

“I fancy you won’t play at being your own handmaid 
any longer, eh?” A glove came off after the syllable and 
he began to wrestle with its mate. 

“And why not, Mr. Crashaw?” She was leading the 
way toward the little back room where she knew her fa- 


20 


MOINA 


ther and Jules Passauf awaited him, and she flung the 
question back over her shoulder. 

"Why not? Oh, well, because it isn’t the custom of 
the country, for one thing — an English heiress, you 
know." 

"Pm not an English heiress, sir; and as for the cus- 
tom of the country — ’’ 

She threw open the door of the little back room and 
quietly announced: 

■' Mr. Crashaw. " 

When that gentleman had crossed the threshold she 
drew the door shut and went back to her window above 
stairs, smiling slightly, and with a gleam of mischief in 
her eyes. 

Rufus Crashaw entered the small room with the air of 
a man assured of his welcome. He merely nodded to 
Passauf, but he greeted his host, who rose to receive 
him, with his nearest approach to respectful deference. 

He was a square-shouldered, square-featured man, 
strong and somewhat heavy. Doggedness, strong will, 
cunning and energy were indicated in his face; and a 
goodly amount of confidence in Rufus Crashaw was shown 
in his eyes, his voice, and his manner. 

Brisk, brusque, energetic, were words often applied to 
Rufus Crashaw. His advice was considered worth the 
asking. It had been said of him that he took uncom- 
mon good care of number one, and that he was fond of 
"running things." It might also have been said that he 
was somewhat lacking in originality, and apt to move 
slowly, outside of his own especial mental groove. 

Although an Englishman, he spent very little of his 
time in his native country. He seemed always "in funds," 
as he himself would have put it, and it had been whis- 
pered that he had made his fortune in iron, and retired 
from the trade. For the rest, he was well-dressed, well- 


SPIDER AND FLY 


21 


mannered after his fashion, well-informed if not well- 
educated, and passed for a gentleman of leisure. 

"Good morning, Mr. La Croix. You are well, I hope. 
Oh, Passauf, you are here before me, punctual as ever." 
He seated himself and laid the moist gloves across one 
knee. "Well, are we ready for business?" 

Mr. La Croix bowed and resumed his seat near a small 
square table, upon which were scattered maps, writing 
material, two or three long, narrow books that looked 
like records, and a number of newspapers, mostly for- 
eign. 

Jules Passauf, a slim, dark man, with small, keen 
eyes looking out from a face almost lost in a short but 
thick growth of beard, drew his chair up to the table 
with a quick jerk, and mechanically took up a pen. 

"Not yet, Passauf,” interposed Crashaw, as he drew his 
own chair forward. "We will talk first, for we have 
something to decide. I have here a letter from Shar- 
lan. " 

"From Shalran!" 

Both men started; La Croix was on his feet. 

Crashaw quietly took a letter from his pocket, opened 
it and held it out to Passauf. 

"It is in his own cipher," he said. "You are better at 
reading than I, but wait. La Croix, you have had your 
seven days — have you decided?" 

The old man had resumed his seat and dropped his 
head upon his hand. 

"You had my decision seven days ago, Mr. Crashaw; 
they were your seven days, not mine." 

"Well, well! You know what I mean. Have you de- 
cided for your daughter, or has she decided for herself?" 

Miles La Croix lifted his head. "Neither," he said 
hrmly. ‘T have not spoken to my daughter. Mr. 
Crashaw, since our last meeting a change has come into 


22 


MOINA 


my daughter’s life. She has inherited from her moth- 
er’s sister, Lady Marian Wylde, a fortune.” 

“Yes, I know that. ” 

‘‘You know it! How?” 

Crashaw smiled. “You forget,” he said; “in such a 
matter as this it would be strange if I did not know. 
Your daughter is one of us.” 

‘‘Not quite.” 

‘‘Well, that is not her fault. But we are wasting 
words.” He turned again to Passauf. “Give me the let- 
ter, ” he said, and his face settled into sternness. 

Without one glance at the document, Jules Passauf 
gave it back into the hand outstretched to take it, and 
turned his keen little eyes and expressionless face upon 
their host. 

Miles La Croix was trembling visibly now, and drops 
of sweat stood out upon his temples. But he met the 
cold eyes squarely, and his own were unwavering. 

Presently Crashaw withdrew his gaze, and taking up 
the letter, began to trifle with it. Finally he spoke, very 
mildly: 

"So, after all. La Croix, you are going to lose your op- 
portunity? It’s too bad.” 

Suddenly the old man arose and stood erect, but trem- 
bling still, before the two men, looking from one to the 
other as he spoke. 

“Crashaw — Passauf — you know me, and you know the 
desire of my heart. If I were a solitary man with no 
ties, no vows to break, there is nothing within my power, 
nothing that my intellect could grasp or my strength 
compass, that I would hesitate to undertake. America, 
India, Australia, the uttermost parts of the earth, are all 
alike to me. If I possessed a hundred million, I would 
put them all into the treasury of the great cause and set 
forth alone and penniless upon its humblest mission. 


SPIDER ^ND FLY 


23 


But then, my daughter and my new duty to her — ’’ He 
broke off abruptly and sank into his seat. A flame of 
crimson had replaced the pallor in his face, his eyes were 
glowing almost fiercely. 

Crashaw made a quick gesture, which Passauf seemed 
readily to interpret. 

“La Croix, my dear friend, ” he exclaimed; “why, man, 
you look i'll! Passauf!" 

But Jules Passauf was already at the door, which he 
opened hastily, calling: “Mademoiselle! Oh, Mademoi- 
selle La Croix!" And, as a clear voice sounded a prompt 
answer, “Come quickly, and bring water! ” he said. 

Light steps came down the passage, and Moina La Croix, 
a glass of water in her hand, swept swiftly into the 
room. She hastened to her father, and, lifting his bowed 
head gently, held the glass to his lips. 

The old man drank the water greedily, and in a mo- 
ment raised his head and smiled upon the fair girl, whose 
arm still rested about his neck. She put down the half- 
drained goblet and turned swiftly upon Rufus Crashaw. 

“Mr. Crashaw, is there any real necessity for such in- 
terviews just now, when he was recovering so nicely? 
Did not you promise me — " 

She stopped abruptly. Mr. Crashaw had taken up the 
letter, the reading of which he had so lately bidden and 
forbidden, and held it out to her with a deferential bow. 

“Miss La Croix, you will find my reason there." 

The girl drew away from him a little. 

“What is it?" she asked coldly. 

“A letter from the Master." 

“Oh! " The girl’s face flushed, and she drew away yet 
further. 

“From him!" she breathed; “and does it concern us?" 

"Yes; all of us— your father, first and most. You 
may read it. Miss Moina." 


34 


MOINA 


She took the letter in silence, and moving back a pace, 
began to scan rapidly the closely written pages. Sud- 
denly all the life and color died out of her face. She 
put up a hand to stifle the cry that rose to her lips, and 
the letter fluttered from her fingers to the floor. 

Across the face of Crashaw came a look of consterna- 
tion, and he turned to meet the calm little eyes of Jules 
Passauf, who nodded reassuringly, and bent to take up 
the fallen letter, which he proffered again to the still 
motionless girl. 

But she pushed it away with a quick gesture. The 
blood surged back to her face, and into her great dark 
eyes came that burning look which made father and child 
so wonderfully alike. 

"Father! Oh, father mine! " She flung herself upon 
her knees beside him, and drew his hand down to her 
shoulder. "Father, dear, it has come! Look up— don’t 
you hear me? Our dream is to be realized at last! 
Good heavens! Help me, Passauf; he has fainted." 

She knelt before him, chafing the long thin hand. "I 
don’t understand it,” she whispered. "I thought he 
would rejoice at this." 

"I can explain it," said Crashaw. "He cannot go with- 
out you; and how can he take an English heiress away 
from her estate — from her — " 

"Hush!" broke in the girl. "He is conscious. Please 
go into the next room." 

A moment later, as she again held fresh water to her 
father’s lips, she said tenderly: 

"Papa, I am going to leave you with Mr. Passauf; I 
will be back very soon." He answered by a nod, and 
in another moment she had joined Crashaw in the next 
room. 

"Now," she said, approaching him with her head very 
erect, "what were you about to say?" 


SPIDER /IND FLY 


25 


"Simply this: I happen to know that you have be- 
come your aunt’s heiress. I also am told that your father 
has made avow never to leave you behind in his travels; 
is that true?" 

"Yes; he promised my dying mother. Her own child- 
hood had been a peculiarly lonely one, and she wished to 
insure me against the same fate." 

"And is it true, also, that your aunt requests you to 
live at Silverthorpe?" 

"Yes." 

"Then his words and their meaning are explained. Miss 
La Croix, I know from your father that your devotion to 
the cause is only second to his. May I suggest a way 
out of the dilemma?" 

"Go on.” 

"If this fortune which has come to you were devoted 
to this grand work of ours, you would no longer be ham- 
pered by it — no longer hinder your father and thwart his 
loftiest ambition. You could go with him and work by 
his side." 

She regarded him fixedly for a moment, then she said, 
with an odd gleam in her dark eyes: 

"Your knowledge, it seems, has its limits, sir. My 
aunt^s will contains a clause expressly designed to de- 
feat any such purpose. Her property descends to the 
next of kin." 

"Ah!" He came a step nearer and spoke in a lower 
tone, and with what was meant for a benevolent smile. 
"Then I see but one other way. If you were to become 
the wife of one of your father’s lieutenants, all could 
set sail for America merrily. Think of it!" 

"There is no need," she flashed out. "Unfortunately, 
papa’ s lieutenants all seem to be ineligibles. " She turned 
toward the door. 

Ah, Moina La Croix, the day will come when you 


36 


MOINA 


will be made to pay for uttering that malicious little 
jibe! 

"Papa,” said Moina when they were again alone, "when 
are we going to the ‘States?’” 

"Moina! ” 

"Now, papa, listen and be good. If my Aunt Marian 
had said I should forfeit her fortune by not living at 
Silverthorpe, I should send for her lawyer and tell him 
to look for the next of kin. It was only a request, and 
one I should carry out against m}^ own desires if I did 
not owe a higher duty elsewhere. Aunt Marian was kind, 
but I did not ask her for her fortune, and neither you 
nor I could live happily at Silverthorpe, from which 
my dear mamma was shut out for so long. We shall go 
to the States, papa dear. I want to go almost as much 
as you do, and if I may not give myself to the cause, I 
may at least give my time and labor, if need be. ” 

“Moina, my daughter,” he said, his pale face lighting 
up; "sit down by me, child. I want to think.” 

She sat down at his feet and took one of his hands, 
stroking it softly, but she did not speak. For many 
long moments he too sat silent. She was well accus- 
tomed to his mood, and often sat like this, silently wait- 
ing his time. At last he bent down and kissed her. 

"Is it true, Moina, or do you only say it to please me? 
Do you really wish to cross the ocean?” 

"Yes, papa. Ah! you know how I love the sea, and 
all my journeyings have been by land, except for a bit of 
the Mediterranean and the Channel. And the new 
world, papa — why, it is alluring to me! Besides, do not 
1 know how you long to be there — what a grand work you 
hope to do? If all they say is true, they need you there. 
Thousands of men banded together and without a leader 
- — oh', papa, - they need you! We must go! ” 


SPIDER AND FLY 


37 


He pressed her hand between his own. 

“If aJl that we hear is true, my daughter, we can do 
much good over there. But now hear me. If matters go 
well, I shall take you at your word. Indeed, I should 
grieve to give it up now. But since you willnot live at 
Silverthorpe, you owe your aunt something. You are very 
young, Moina — too young to choose a life-work. It was 
your aunt’s hope that you would one day shine in the 
society to which your mother was born, and I cannot 
permit you to thwart her wishes in this. Promise me 
that for a year you will give up all thought of taking 
part in our work, other than such as you have already 
done and as I shall assign you, and that you will live, 
as nearly as you can, a life of a young lady of wealth 
and position. Try the world, Moina — try it for a year." 

“And then, papa?" 

“And then — you shall choose. Do you promise this?" 

“Yes, papa; I promise gladl}^” 

“Then all is settled. We go to the States." 


CHAPTER III 


MASTER AND SCRIBE 

In Thames street, that home of bus}^ dealers and goal 
of lower venders, all is bustle and confusion. Pushing 
his way through the throng, at three o^clock in the 
afternoon, went a man who might have been a small and 
unusually well-mannered tradesman, to judge by his 
dress. 

He wore a long, loose top-coat, which fluttered, as he 
walked, almost at his heels, and a wide-brimmed soft 
hat, pulled low down upon his forehead, concealed all of 
his face that was not otherwise hidden beneath a strag- 
gling growth of beard. 

Up four flights of stairs of a dark and steep building 
he toiled slowly, to enter a small, dark ante-room, the 
door of which he opened promptly by the help of a key. 
Before a wardrobe the man stopped and took off his 
long coat and slouch hat. Another rapid motion, and the 
hirsute covering dropped from his face and followed the 
hat and coat. A wig of unkempt hair came next, and the 
aperture swung to, and the manipulator of this most con- 
venient wardrobe moved a step toward the end nearest the 
outer door. There a second hook served as a lever, and a 
panel again opened inward. This time the cavity re- 
vealed appeared to be well filled, for, thrusting in his 
hand, the man drew out a coat which he donned, a hat 
of quite another type than that which he had discarded, 
a brush, a comb, and a tiny hand-mirror. 

Having critically surveyed his face and arranged his 

28 


MASTER AND SCRIBE 


20 


recent and closely cropped hair, which was quite white, 
he closed and locked the wardrobe and turned once more 
to the inner door. He tapped lightly three raps, and 
then, as noiselessly as he had shot the bolt, he withdrew 
it. Another moment of waiting and a third key was ap- 
plied, and the door pushed hastily open. 

What he saw was very simple; a large square room 
with dingy walls and ceilings, but scrupulously clean; a 
large square table of some dark wood occupied the cen- 
ter of the room; a dozen chairs were arranged about it 
in stiff array. In each of the two corners opposite the 
door of entrance stood a desk. 

At one of these desks sat a man bending over a pile 
of unopened letters. Even as the door swung inward, he 
gave no signs that he heard. 

As the new-comer approached the desk, the automatic 
scribe put his pen behind his ear, closed his ink-bottle 
with a sharp click, and turned half around. 

“Any letters, Dassett?" 

From a pigeon-hole the man took half a dozen letters, 
each marked “Private, “ and gave them to the new-comer, 
who took them at once to the table and began their pe- 
rusal. 

After a time the scribe looked around, and seeing 
him no longer reading, said; 

“Mr. Sharlan, there is a message from Crashaw. He 
will be here soon.” 

“A message? And who, pray, was his messenger?" 

“Jules Passauf. " 

“What position does he occupy relatively to Crashaw?" 

“Very much what I occupy relatively to you, Mr. 
Sharlan. " 

“Ah, indeed! The trusted and trustworthy confiden- 
tial friend and secretary, then." 


MOlhIA 


:{0 

No reply; the trusted and trustworthy was again 
scratching at his desk. 

“You have been careful to have no letters come di- 
rectly liere?” he asked, finally. 

“I have taken all possible precaution.” 

“And your own going and coming — ”■ 

“Is always by the rear entrance. I am taken for a 
gentleman’s valet.” 

“Ah! really!” Sharlan laughed lightly. “Are there 
any letters that require my personal notice?" 

“There are some here* — shall I run over the list?” 

“Yes.” 

From a long narrow slip of paper the scribe began to 
read in a tone that was quite expressionless, and with a 
pause after each item. 

“From Cairo. No. 19. De Rayner reports strong 
feeling; thinks a demonstration is just now very much 
needed. ” 

“From Cairo!” A moment of silence, while Mr. Shar- 
lan opens a large book and runs his eye over a list of 
names. “Put the matter into the department of Dr. 
Cassen. ” 

“Umph! Cassen has just written for funds, from Paris.” 

“Let Drasky send him fifty pounds.” 

“Wainwright reports the pamphlets exhausted in the 
provinces, and a need for more. They are, for the most 
part, well received.” 

“Let him be supplied at once.” 

"Wainwright suggests, for later circulation, a stronger 
pamphlet. ” 

“Well — suggest, Dassett. Who shall write the 
‘stronger’ pamphlet?” 

“Rene Savareis.” 

“Who is he?” 

“A member of the Third Division.” 


MASTER AND SCRIBE 


ai 


"“How was he first brought to your notice?” 

“Through Crashaw’s friend, La Croix. I think he is 
one of La Croix’s converts.” 

“I see that you don’t like this young fellow. In a word, 
tell me what is the worst thing you know of him." 

“I have told you my best and worst. Mr. Rene Sava- 
reis is very enthusiastic, full of chivalry, full of fine feel- 
ings and nice scruples.” 

Dassett turned back to his desk, and a queer smile came 
into Sharlan’s face. Crossing the room, he seated 
himself near the desk. 

“Now, Dassett," he said, "about this candidate of 
Crashaw’s — this Miles La Croix?" 

“Miles La Croix is sixty-five," he began “and he looks 
older at times. He is said to be of good blood, his fa- 
ther being a French adventurer of high family but fallen 
fortunes, and his mother the daughter of a Florentine 
revolutionist. La Croix married an English gentle- 
woman who died, leaving him with a child two years old. 
Moina La Croix is now a beautiful young woman. La 
Croix inherited a competency in his youth, which he 
lost by some unlucky venture. I am told that when his 
wife died they were in extreme poverty, she having been 
disowned by her English relatives because of her mar- 
riage. La Croix is one of those men who inspire confi- 
dence and attract friends.” 

“I see that you, at least, are an admirer of this La Croix.” 

“So is every one who knows him, except, perhaps, Ru- 
fus Crashaw. Miles La Croix is an honest believer in the 
cause he advocates, and his daughter is in sympathy with 
him. Owing to his loss of fortune, he has had opportu- 
nity to learn his lesson and study the wrongs of the 
working-people at short range. His wife died among 
them. All the kindness she knew in her last moments 
was at the hands of the poor. These things have made 


32 


MOIhlA 


upon him a lasting impression. The result you have in 
the present Miles La Croix. If he can be kept regu- 
lated — kept within bounds — he ought to be a power for 
us in the States’ where I too wish to go.” 

“You?” 

“Yes. I wish to become a spy,” said Dassett, dog- 
gedly. “Look here, Mr. Sharlan, you know that you can 
trust me.” 

“Yes, Dassett; but a spy is chosen." 

“Pardon me; I do not wish to usurp her place." 

“Hers!” 

“I have not been prying, Mr. Sharlan, but I know who 
it is, and I ask you again if it might not be well to send 
some one who could assist her if needed, and who, un- 
less that time came, would remain unseen, unknown. I 
will be honest. I want to go for a personal reason, and 
I will pledge myself to be always at the service of your 
friend, as well as yours. More than once 3^ou have said 
that I had the natural qualifications for a detective. I 
want to test them. Let me try.” 

“Can you find me a secretary?" 

“Yes. I have thought of that, and I believe I can." 

“Have him here to-morrow then. When I have seen 
him, you shall have my answer." 


CHAPTER IV 


MOINA AND MADELINE 

"Godmother, look look quick! Ah, there, she lias 
turned away!" 

"What is it, dear?” 

"That beautiful creature again, of course!” 

"Oh, the lovely girl? What a Quixote 3^011 are, Mad- 
eline. You are as anxious to make the acquaintauce of 
that fair lady as if you were a man, instead of — " 

"An old maid." 

"Nonsense! One must be at least twenty-four before 
she can lawfully claim the title, and you — ” 

"I am approaching that blissful age fast enough. Yes, 
I admit that I do want to know that girl.” 

"I should think that might be easy enough.” 

"Pm not so sure; she seems very reserved — I was 
about to sa}^ shy, but that is not the word ; shyness 
implies self-consciousness, and that girl is as gracefully 
unconscious of her own grace and beauty, and of the ad- 
miring eyes that follow her, as if she were alone with 
that stately old man who must be her father.” 

Madeline’s companion, lying back in the steamer chair, 
wrapped in her rugs and trifling with some fleecy wools 
that lay tangled in her lap, smiled up into the face turn- 
ed toward her, letting her eyes linger lovingly there. 

It was a beautiful face and a youthful one, in spite of 
the owner’s avowed nearness to the mystic line which 
cuts off the maiden from the realm of spinsterhood ; and 
it was more than this: it was a face whose beauty had 
Moina — j 33 


34 


M0INy4 


been chastened, disciplined, and purified; a fine, firm, 
courageous face* at once strong and tender, self-contained 
and sensitive, helpful and womanly sweet. 

At twenty-three, Madeline Payne had lived out one 
life-time of trial and suffering; had passed through bit- 
terest sorrows; had known the world as a hard task-mas- 
ter; had been sinned against, tempted, persecuted; had 
fought her battles and conquered, first her enemies, and 
then herself. And now, chastened, purified, humbled, 
and strengthened, she stands looking down into the face 
of her nearest and dearest friend (for blood relative she 
has not one), and is a happy woman; knowing the world 
and her fellow-mort-als, loving its good things, loathing 
its evil; ready with heart and hand to help its sufferers, 
to pity the weak, to cheer on the strong ; trusting in God, 
and believing full}^ after many fierce battles with her 
own fiery nature, that all her life has been and is — 

“Best for her and for mankind.’’ 

As the elder woman looks and smiles, Madeline draws 
nearer. 

“Are you quite comfortable, dear? Let me pull up 
that rug." 

“No, child; I am very comfortable, and what a lovely 
morning! I wish I was a better sailor, such as you. I 
feel like a passenger just come on board, the life on deck 
is so new to me. And you, in these few days — you know 
everybody here, of course." 

“Not quite; you forget ” 

“I mean in your way — and it’s a very good way. Sit 
down and tell me about your fellow passengers." 

Madeline seated herself with a smile in her brown eyes, 
but with a very sober face. 

“First," she began, “there is a lady on board who in- 
terests me more than all the rest. This lady is tall and 
slender and rather fragile; not ill, you understand — not 


MASTER AND SCRIBE 


35 


in the least — only dainty, and, I sometimes fancy, a bit 
spoiled by a rather domineering young woman who looks 
after her very sharply, and of >vhom 1 have not a very 
flattering opinion. This very gentle, sweet voiced lady 
has been ill in her state-room ever since the first day 
out, and has appeared on deck to-day for the first time. 
She is sitting in a deck-chair, and the domineering young 
woman in a moment will present to her the captain of 
the ship, which is not a ship, but a very prosaic steamer. ’’ 

The lady put out a slender hand and laid a finger lightly 
upon the lovely lips now parting in a smile of welcome, 
as the captain approached; and in another moment Mrs. 
Ralston and Captain Hardin were made acquainted and 
were exchanging the usual courtesies, while Madeline 
Payne, standing erect once more, was looking around and 
now and then contributing her word to the conversation. 

“Captain,” she said after a time, “I am growing inter- 
ested in one of your passengers, and 1 want some infor- 
mation concerning — " 

“Him?” 

“Her!” Madeline laughed softly. "I mean the beauti- 
ful girl who is almost alw'ays with her father.” 

“The lady is a Miss La Croix, booked from London, via 
Liverpool, to New York, like yourself. The old man 
is a gentleman, and I have found him most interesting, 
although very reticent. He has favored me with an in- 
troduction to his daughter, but her reserve I have not as 
yet been able to penetrate. Do you know, I fancy that 
there is a romance going on — perhaps I ought to say be- 
ginning — under our eyes?” 

‘Indeed!” Madeline turned a smiling face upon the 
captain, who had taken a seat beside Mrs. Ralston. 
“Pray, let us into the secret.” 

“I have fancied that this poetic-looking youth is casting 
longing eyes toward Miss La Croix,” he said. “In fact, 


36 


MOWA 


I have seen her eyes follow some movement of his more 
than once, and I fancied this morning that the father 
noticed something of the same sort, for I saw his eyes 
follow the young fellow in his promenade and then turn 
toward his daughter with, I thought, a look of warning 
or mild reproof in them.” 

During the days that followed, Madeline Payne found 
her list of acquaintances on board the steamer "Manhat- 
tan” growing large by rapid degrees. First, Captain Har- 
din presented to Mrs. Ralston and herself the La Croix, 
father and daughter. And then, by a little stratagem 
easy enough of execution, Mr. Crashaw made it neces- 
sary that Miss Payne present him to the two. This 
done, it appeared that Crashaw formed the acquaintance 
of the good-looking youth, who might, according to 
Madeline, have been either poet or musician. And soon 
the group that congregated daily about Mrs. Ralston’s 
adjustable deck-chair was composed of strange elements: 
Miles and Moina La Croix, Rufus Crashaw, who, for 
reasons which seemed mutually understood and mutually 
satisfactory, enacted the role of stranger to both Rene 
Savareis, the handsome youth. Captain Hardin, and two 
or three sight-seers. 

It was a not unpleasant party, dissimilar as were the 
elements which composed it. Before they separated 
upon anchoring in New York harbor, each knew of the 
other little biographical fragments such as these: 

Mrs. Ralston, a widow, wealthy, childless, and very 
much attached to Miss Payne, who had been her travel- 
ing companion for three years. Mrs. Ralston was re- 
turning to New York to live, and her friend Madeline 
would live with her. 

Madeline Payne, an orphan and an heiress, having 
chosen Mrs. Ralston for friend and chaperone, would be 
brought out by her, and looked forward to a winter of 


MASTER AND SCRIBE 


37 


pleasure. She was not a frivolous young woman, but 
she was alive to all that was charming and pleasant in 
life, and meant to see society from a foremost place in 
its ranks; for such place she could well command, be- 
cause of her beauty and cleverness, her wealth, and the 
social standing already assured of her chaperone and 
other friends. 

Miles La Croix, so said Captain Hardin, was a gen- 
tleman and an artist. Possibly he would open a studio 
and devote a portion of his time to his art. 

Rufus Crashaw was a man of affairs. He was inter- 
ested in many things, notably, just now, in railroads, in 
western lands, and American politics. 

Rene Savareis was also an artist. He meant to see 
life in New York for a while, and perhaps make a few 
pictures. He was not a finished artist — oh, no, he need- 
ed instruction. When Mr. La Croix- had opened his 
studio, he might perhaps hope for a little help from him. 

Between the two girls a genuine liking sprang up, and 
when alone with Madeline Payne, Moina La Croix was 
at her best. It was her first ocean voyage, and, oddly 
enough, she was not sea-sick. Every remaining day of 
the passage was bright, and Moina, in Madeline’s com- 
pany, enjoyed it greatly. 

One thing Madeline Payne was quick to note. So long 
as they conversed of impersonal things, Moina was frank, 
and full of pretty ideas and quaint conceits. But to 
introduce into the conversation the names of Mr. Crashaw 
or Rene Savareis was to bring at once over the girl’s 
fair face a veil of reticence, and, in spite of her efforts 
to seem indifferent, her manner became embarrassed. 

“I have been among the toiling ones,” she said one 
day. "I wanted to know for myself. I think I shall 
never outlive the horror of it — the shock it was to 


38 


MOINA 


learn that so near me, breathing the same air, were 
young girls like myself, and older women, mothers and 
grandmothers, wearing out their lives just for the privi- 
lege of living! — and such living! Huddled together in 
close little garret rooms are women sewing, living upon 
a dry loaf, drinking tainted water, or poisonous cheap 
tea by way of luxury — dressed in tattered clothing, and 
no light, no beauty, no sunshine in their monotonous 
lives! Once I saw an old woman who had just been 
released from prison, and I asked her what her life had 
been behind those barred doors. ‘It was a very good 
life,’ she said, ‘compared with the life I used to live. I 
had better food, a better bed, and lighter work in prison 
than I could hope for out of it. I knew that I would— 
and I stole to get there.’” 

"My dear, you are a little enthusiast,” said Made- 
line, admiringly. .“And what a telling point that little 
story would make in a Socialistic speech! I begin to 
suspect you. Come, honestly now, aren’t you a bit of a 
Socialist yourself?” 

Madeline had uttered her bantering speech lightly, 
and only to curb the enthusiasm glowing upon the 
lovely face beside her. She was not prepared for the 
effect of her lightly uttered words. Moina’s face, already 
flushing and glowing, grew yet more vivid, and then paled 
utterly. She withdrew her hand with a quick, startled 
motion, and half rose, her eyes involuntarily seeking the 
place where her father sat in conversation with Mrs. 
Ralston and Captain Hardin. 

“Pardon me” — it was an icily cool voice at her elbow 
— “permit me — ” 

Moina sank back into her seat and put out her hand to 
take from Mr. Grashaw the handkerchief that had flut-> 
tered from her lap to the deck. 


MASTER AND SCRIBE 


39 


"Were you about to join your father, Miss La Croix? 
if so — ’’ 

"Thank you." Moina’s voice was quite calm now-, and 
her eyes met his without flinching. "I have no such 
intention at present, Mr. Crashaw.” 


CHAPTER V 


SENTENCE OF DEATH 

If there is in all this world a sight more hideous, 
more hopeless, than a coffin, it is a prison cell — the cell 
of the condemned. 

If the coffin is tenanted only by a piece of pulseless 
clay, it holds no heart-break, no despair, no horror of 
the dread hour to come. But the cell of the con- 
demned, who soon and surely will bid good-bye to the 
world, and at a given moment go out into space — oh, the 
dreariness of that! 

"On such or such a day, between the hours of ten and 
two of the clock, sentence of death will be executed 
upon the prisoner." 

These, or such as these, were the words that repeated 
themselves over and over in the ears of a pale prisoner, 
the sole occupant of a "condemned" cell, on the twelfth 
of May, and at "ten of the clock." 

He was sitting upon the side of his narrow iron bed, 
looking straight before him — not at the bare wall and 
grated door, but through and beyond them — seeing, with 
tha,t inward vision that neither bolts nor bars nor prison 
walls can hold in check — what? 

His clasped hands hung loosely between his knees, 
upon which his elbows rested, and, while his body was 
inclined forward, his head was lifted and thrown slight- 
ly back. The smooth-shaven face was a youthful one; 
not handsome, but firm in its lines, refined in its expres- 
sion — not at all the face of a typical assassin. There 

40 



HE WAS SITTING UPON THE SIDE OP HIS NARROW IRON BED, 
LOOKING STRAIGHT BEFORE HIM.— Moina, p.40. 


42 


MOINA 


was no hardness there, no trace of a vicious life. The 
forehead was broad and white, fhe eyes looked straight- 
forward, and with no hint of fear in them. The loosely 
clasped hands were white, soft and well cared for — 
manifestly the hands of a gentleman. The mouth was 
fine, and, when it relaxed in a smile, the otherwise plain 
face must have seemed almost handsome. 

And this man, who could not have seen more than twenty- 
four or twenty-five years of life, was a murderer! Not 
a murderer condemned upon evidence, circumstantial or 
other, but a murderer by his own confession. 

And what a murder! The victim was a man of sixty, a 
quiet, unobtrusive citizen, beloved by his own little cir- 
cle of friends, and scarcely known be5mnd it. And the 
cause, the provocation? Ah, there was the mystery! 

Jacob Traill had emerged from the church where, 
every Sunday evening for many years, he had bowed his 
head in humble, sincere worship. Before him, behind 
him, all about him, were other worshipers. Close 
behind him a solitary figure walked — always close behind 
him — until, half a dozen blocks from the church, the 
crowd became scattered, and a row of trees stretching out 
beyond threw deep shadows and swallowed up the fli tting 
figures moving this way and that. 

Then a young man leaning over a cottage gate and 
holding in the friendly shadow the hand of a fair com- 
panion saw, across the way, a slow moving form before, 
and another that moved more swiftly, as if in pursuit. 
Suddenly they seemed to blend and become one strug- 
gling mass. Then, instantly almost, a sharp report 
rang out, breaking the Sabbath stillness of the quiet 
quarter. 

The fair hand was dropped and the youth darted 
across the street. But quick as he was, another was 
before him, with a strong clutch upon the afm of the 


SENTENCE OF DEATH 


43 


slayer, and the youth’s voice rang out in that always 
thrilling cry of “Murder!" 

Afterward it appeared that the pair were well-matched, 
and that the assassin made a momentary struggle. But 
his capturer, a man with a cool head and well-developed 
muscle, easily wrested the smoking pistol from his grasp 
and that was the end of resistance. 

The prisoner, when put to trial, pleaded guilty, but re- 
fused to give his name or his motive. He was guilty — 
that was enough' 

And now the day of expiation had come. Between 
the hours of ten and two he was to die, and it had struck 
ten already! 

“Four more hours, perhaps, to wait, "the prisoner mut- 
tered wearily. 

The door of his cell opened slowly, and a man, young 
like himself, but tall, erect, and full of glowing health 
and vigor, entered and paused near the door, standing 
silently there until it had closed behind him. Then he 
seated himself upon the cot beside the prisoner. 

“Well," he said; and the single syllable was at once a 
greeting and an assurance of sympathy. 

The condemned turned his head. 

“You!" he said, turning toward the new-comer. “I 
thought it was the chaplain." 

“No; I prevailed with them once more." 

The prisoner’s hopeless eyes scanned his face almost 
wistfully. 

“You seem a man born to prevail," he said slowly. “I 
wish — " He checked his speech, but did not withdraw 
his gaze. 

“1 have not prevailed with you,” said the visitor, in a 
low tone. “Have you thought it all over? Is there no 
way open to you? No word that you can utter? No 
sign that you may give, and that I may understand?” 


44 


MOIN/i 


The prisoner arose and stood erect before him. 

"Is it possible!" he said. "Do you still believe in 
me?" He turned away his face for a moment. "Jf 3'ou 
persist in this," he said at last, huskily, "you will have me 
unmanned at the last moment. I beg of you, don’t do 
that." 

"I won’t!" — getting up and answering in a most mat- 
ter-of-fact tone. "I want to do you good, not ill " Then 
he came a step nearer. "Tell me — for the last time I ask 
you — is there no wish unfulfilled, no message, no word? 
Can I do nothing to throw a ray of light, a gleam of 
comfort, upon these last hours of yours?" 

The prisoner turned upon him suddenly. 

"Tell me," he said, with low-toned vehemence, "why 
you come to me like this? Who are you? And what 
end will this interest of yours serve?" 

"Pm going to answer you fully. Who am I? I intro- 
duced myself correctly. I am Roger Drexel, a bachelor 
admitted to the bar, but without an office or practice. 
Nature has endowed me with a fondness and a faculty 
for diving under the surface in search of hidden mean- 
ings. I look always for the pearl in the oyster. Why 
do I come to you as I have?" He leaned toward the 
other, who was now sitting near him upon the cot. "Be- 
cause I must!" with a slight gesture, and holding the 
eye of the prisoner with his own. "Because we are broth- 
ers!" 

"What!" The prisoner lifted one hand quickly, and 
as quickly let it fall again. "How — far — " he articu- 
lated. 

"Not far — only across the threshold; but far enough 
to learn something of how things are done above us, be- 
yond us; how the great family is growing, and how — " 
He paused, for the prisoner had made a gesture entreat- 
ing him to silence. 


SENTENCh OF DEATH 


45 


"Say no more," he whispered. "It can do no good! 
Why have you revealed yourself now?" 

"I will tell you.” Roger Drexel arose and stood over 
the condemned, who was trembling violently, and very 
pale. "It is because I see in you one of a long list of 
martyrs— men sacrificed at the bidding of commanders 
safe and high, terrible power for good or evil, and work- 
ing through the hearts and hands — yes, and the lives of 
our brethren.” 

His strong hand fell heavily on the shoulder of the 
man before him — heavily, but not ungently. "Look into 
my eyes, comrade, and tell me: When you took the first 
step, with open eyes, or so you thought, with heart thrill- 
ing with lofty sentiments, did you recognize anywhere 
the hand of iron under the velvet? Looking up the 
^shining ladder,’ lifting your face 'toward the stars,’ was 
there anything sinister in their gleam? — anything that 
was the faintest prophecy of — this?” 

He swept the narrow cell with a glance and a gesture, 
and the poor prisoner understood. 

"No,” he groaned. "No, there was nothing, nothing.” 

"And yet,” Roger Drexel’ s low tone was bitter and 
very stern, "the Captains, the Commanders of the Nine- 
ties, the Council, all saw, all see to-day, the first step 
and the last. They know that, fair and white as is the 
first portal, when we have entered, there is no going 
back. They see the end from the beginning, and yet—" 

"Hush!” The condemned man sprang up and put out 
an imploring hand. "What is it you are saying! Don’t 
you know — " 

"Yes, I know, although I have only trod the outer 
portal. And you — but no matter. If what I am about 
to say is true, you need make me no reply; but if I am 
in error, 1 beg of you make it known to me. You can 
do that safely, honorably.” 


46 


MOINA 


For a moment the two men looked into each other’s 
eyes; then the condemned man dropped once more upon 
the cot and buried his face in his hands. 

Already it was eleven o’clock. Suddenly the hands 
dropped from before the face that had been forced back 
into its accustomed calm. 

“One thing I will say," the prisoner said, firmly. “I 
have longed to tell it to you before. I could not quite 
bear to go out into the unknown without once lifting my 
head and letting the last spark of manhood left to me 
have its way." He caught his breath sharply, and sud- 
denly lifted his right hand, holding it aloft and throw- 
ing back his head as he spoke. “As if I were alread}^ in 
the presence of that God whom I am so soon to face, I 
swear to you that no thought of anger, or hatred, or re- 
venge, no hope of gain, animated the brain that directed 
or the hand that struck that hideous blow. Already 
while that poor victim yet struggled at my feet, I was, 
to myself and to all the world, as it concerned or affected 
me a dead man, a suicide — a murderer of cause; a mur- 
derer in intent, of more than my one poor victim. In God^s 
name, do not call me a martyr, and so perhaps help to 
make other assassins!" 

He was silent a moment, and then his chin again 
dropped upon his breast. 

“I cannot say more than this of myself," he added in a 
tone of pathetic apology. “Do not ask it again, I beg. 
Who I am or was, and what I was, matters little now. 

I was a man once, with a home and a future. I was 
loved, and I — oh, my God!" 

His hands went up in a despairing gesture. He 
writhed to his feet and then flung himself face downward 
upon the prison cot; and tears, the bitterest that man 
ever sheds, and sobs that shook him wofully and were 


SENTENCE OF DEATH 


47 


a torture to his listener, broke up for the first time the 
.stolid calm of his demeanor. 

Writhing and torn by strong emotion, he lay tliere 
prone upon his face, and Roger Drexel, with set lips and 
clinched fingers, paced the little cell and waited for the 
storm to pass. 

The turnkey came to the door and looked in through 
the iron grating, and then the chaplain showed in the 
doorway a gentle, anxious face; but Drexel gave to the 
one only a glance, and waved him away with a gesture; 
to the other he said: 

“Not now; I must not lose this chance. Leave us. I 
will call you — in time." 

The face of the chaplain was very anxious when he 
again presented himself, but again Drexel whispered: 

“Not yet.” 

“It is almost one o’clock,” the good man whispered. 

There was a sudden movement of the form which for 
some moments had been lying still upon the cot and 
breathing heavily, but it was not until after the face of 
the chaplain was withdrawn that the prisoner lifted his 
head and then sat up. 

“So,” he said quite calmly, “it is nearly over.” For a 
moment his gaze wandered slowly all about the cell, 
then it fastened itself upon Roger Drexel. 

“After all,” he said, with a shadowy smile, “I do 
thank you. I am indebted to you. Great heavens! 
what a forlorn, friendless wretch I would have been but 
for you. I am indebted to you, I dare say, for all of the 
comforts permitted to me.” 

“No.” 

“1 think it must be so. Why have you done this?” 

Drexel drew closer to him. 

“Because I saw in you the prophecy of what my fate 
might have been but for the sober thought, the timely 


48 


MOINA 


warning, you have brought to me; because I began, as 
no doubt you began, an enthusiast; and there are others, 
many others, like us — you and I — all over the world, being 
just led, then driven, they know not whither. Let me 
tell you what I am going to do — if you do not forbid it — 
even if you do, perhaps.” 

“What is it?” 

“You have refused to give me your name, your home, 
your nationality even. We ao not know your rank, nor 
if you leave friends. I ask you nothing, and so — ask noth- 
ing of me. I am going to unravel the mystery you be- 
queath to me; and if I find at the end that I can set at 
rest heart-rending uncertainty, and not make sad 
hearts sadder, I am going to make your story known, 
and so emancipate myself while I vindicate you; for I 
say again, you are only what I might have been — must have 
been, perhaps — but for you. I have studied you long and 
well, my poor comrade, and if I have read your story 
aright, I cannot but know what it is you have endured, 
and how light, how easy in comparison, this that is to 
come will be.” 

Into the face of the prisoner came a woful pallor, and 
the anguish that looked out of his eyes was awful to see. 

■‘Oh!" he moaned, "you don’t know even yet. You 
cannot fathom it — the worst.” 

“Pardon me.” Drexel dropped down beside him and 
put again a hand upon his shoulder. "I think I do.” 

“You think — 570U do?” 

Drexel bent his head and put his lips to the prisoner’s 
ear. 

"Your sacrifice has been in vain," he whispered. 
"// was the zvrong man.” 

For a long moment the two gazed into each other’s faces 
in utter silence; then the door of the cell creaked upon 


SENTENCE OF DEATH 


>19 


its hinges, and there entered the chaplain in his black 
robe, the sheriff and an attendant — the hour had come. 


Twenty minutes later, Roger Drexel stood outside the 
jail, alone, pallid and sick at heart. There upon the 
highway, with the ebb and flow of life all about him, he 
turned his face toward a sunlit sky, seeing the while 
only a pallid, drawn, dead face. 

‘‘As God hears me,” he murmured below^his breath, 
“with all my strength and in all ways possible, I will 
fight this hydra-headed monster that has well-nigh de- 
voured me; this secret society that has girdled the 
world and that has usurped the powers of life and death 
— anathema maranatha! ” 

Moina — 4. 


CHAPTER VI 


A lawyer’s fee 

Two hours after that last scene in the prison, where 
Roger Drexel had sustained the unknown condemned to 
the last, standing beside him until the horrible death- 
trap sprung, he was seeking admittance at the door of 
lawyer Fallingsbee’s private office. 

"You are aware, perhaps, that I was beside the man who 
was executed, scarcely three hours ago, for the murder 
of Jacob Traill; beside him in his last moments, " he said 
to the lawyer — "and he gave me a message for you and 
your associates.” 

"Yes?" 

"He asked me to thank you for all you did and all 
that you sought to do in his behalf.” 

Mr. Fallingsbee was silent a moment. 

"Well,” he said finally, "that is more than he said to 
me — to any of us. A strange case — a strange case! " 
Then he jerked his chair closer to that occupied by his 
visitor. "Drexel,” he said, "you’re a queer fellow! 
How in the world came you to be interested in that 
chap? But, pardon me, perhaps you know him?” 

"If I had,” said Drexel, "it would have been my dut}^ 
to come forward and make his identity known.” 

"And you were with him to the end? Well, then, I 
dare say you could give me information — me, his law- 
yer. Come, now, did he open his mouth at the last?” 

"Not to make communications.” 

"Not even to tell his name, or his motive?" 

50 


A LAWYER'S FEE 


51 


"Not even that. " 

The lawyer mused a moment, then — 

You said something about wanting information,” he 
hazarded. 

"I want to ask some questions quite on my own re- 
sponsibility; and I want to beg you not to question 
me in return — at least not now. I will begin by telling 
all I have to tell of my reasons for asking these ques- 
tions. They are purely my own. 1 am not acting for 
any one, unless it might be for the dead man.” 

"What do you want to know?” the lawyer abruptly 
demanded. 

"I want to know who retained you to defend the 
prisoner?” 

"I can’t tell you. ” 

"You mean you will not?” 

"1 can’t tell you who retained me; I don’t know." 

"Not know? Mr. Fallingsbee, if you are under any 
promise of secrecy, pray say so. I have not asked this 
from idle curiosity.” 

"I’m quite sure of that, Drexel, and I’m under no 
promise of secrecy. I’m quite willing to tell you in 
confidence all that I know. A few days after the mur- 
der I received a printed letter — 

"Printed!” 

■'With a pen, I mean — and badly printed, too. There 
was no preamble, no address, no signature. It simply 
asked if I would undertake the defense of the man who 
had caused the death of Jacob Traill, and for how much. 
My answer must be definite; there would be no corre- 
spondence. Should I accept, the money would be paid 
in advance, and I must conduct the case in my own 
way. ” 

"Strange!” 

"Surprised, are you,? Well, so was I. I think it was 


52 


MOINA 


the strangeness of it that induced me to reply about like 
this: ‘I will undertake the case for five thousand dollars/ 
I posted my reply at noon. The next morning I received 
a package containing ten five-hundred-dollar bank-notes, 
and the messenger who brought it got away before I 
could get a glimpse of him. The prisoner, when I told 
him of this, manifested neither emotion nor interest." 

"You have obliged me greatly, Mr. Fallingsbee, " said 
Drexel. "It seems almost churlish not to make you full 
explanation here and now. I have been from the first 
oddly interested in this strange case. But my ideas are 
at present too vague to be put into words. I want to 
know all that I can, and if I find that my inquiries lead 
to anything, I will enlighten you. Will you tell me the 
address to which you sent your reply to that printed 
letter?" 

"Really — but — yes, I will! IBs a post-office box. " He 
arose, went across the room, and selected a small book 
of addresses. 

In a moment he had copied the number upon a card 
and put it into DrexeBs hand. 


On his way home Roger Drexel pondered* the strange 
case, which to him was daily growing stranger. 

"Two things I may set down as at least probable,” he 
said to himself. "The party or parties who retained 
Fallingsbee have a long purse; second, it looks as if 
the money is paid to cover up the tracks of some one 
unknown, or to encourage the prisoner to keep silence 
while some one gets out of harm^s way. In some fash- 
ion that man has been taken in a net, and he chose to die 
knowing this, yet with closed lips. Strange! strange!" 

Pondering thus, he was brought to a halt by a hand 
upon his shoulder^ 


A LAIVYER^S FEE 


53 


"Drexel, where now? I am glad to have met you. 
Shall you dine with us to-day?” 

"Yes; that is — do you have any one else?" 

"No; we scarcely felt festive, and Olive was fearing 
that you would be too seriously inclined.” 

"I shall be only too glad to come to you after such a 
dreary scene; but — I almost feared there would be 
others. ” 

“No; oh, no! Olive — indeed all of us feel almost as 
if we had some personal interest in this day’s tragedy." 

“That is natural. You witnessed the beginning, Phil- 
ip, and I — the end.” 

“And both,” said Philip Girard, “were horrible." 

For some moments they walked on in silence, and 
then they separated, Roger turning homeward and Phil ip 
going to keep an appointment at a favorite club. 


CHAPTER VII 


AFTER THE TRAGEDY 

Dinner waited in the pretty home, pretty without and 
within, where Olive Girard reigned as mistress— a happy 
mistress now, although for a few dreary years she had 
been a sad one, and the pretty villa had been a home of 
gloom, for Olive Girard and her husband Philip, two 
noble souls, worthy of the best that the world could give, 
had been made the playthings of fate, when that uncer- 
tain -vixen was in an adverse mood. 

Mr. and Mrs. Girard were not, strictly speaking, in 
society. They had gathered about them a charming 
little circle of friends, called from among*society’s best, 
and every member tried and not found wanting. 

Dinner-time was at hand, and as yet there were but 
four people gathered together in the pleasant library — 
Olive and Philip Girard, Dr. Clarence Vaughan, and 
little Phil, who had been permitted to wait down-stairs 
that he might see his prime favorite, ‘Dex,’ as he called 
Drexel. 

It was a very quiet dinner. Drexel, noted in society 
as a brilliant talker and the life of a dinner party, was 
silent and preoccupied; and the burden of the talk fell 
upon Dr. Vaughan and Olive Girard. 

“I have a letter from Miss Payne — Madeline,” re- 
marked Mrs. Girard. "She will be in New York soon.” 

A quiet smile was playing about the corners of Dr. 
Vaughan’s mouth, a look of content was in his eyes, as 
they rested upon Roger Drexel; and no one saw the smile 

54 


AFTER THE TRAGEDY 


fade, or the look of content give place to one of pain, as 
the handsome young man opposite turned a brightening 
face upon host and hostess in turn. 

"Is that true? Is she really coming?" Actually, his 
face was flushing with pleasure, and his eyes were beam- 
ing. Only Dr. Vaughan had seen his first start of glad 
surprise. "I’m very glad to hear it! Does she come to 
stay? " 

"Yes, for the present. Of course, Mrs. Ralston comes 
with her." 

"And they will reside in the city?" persisted Drexel. 

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Ralston had instructed Mr. Lord, 
some time since, to find her a suitable house. I think 
she wanted to be rather gay this winter, for Madeline’s 
sake. But Philip tells me that Mr. Lord has other 
ideas. " 

"Eh!" Drexel turned quickly upon his host. "How 
is that, Philip?” 

"You see, Mr. Lord has decided not to give up that 
monster house of his, but to have some of its rooms re- 
furnished, and he wants Mrs. Ralston to enter in and 
take possession. He only asks to be allowed his corner 
by the fireside and his occasional ‘fat men’s dinners,’ as 
Madeline used to call those gatherings of grave and solid 
millionaires about his table.” 

"Mr. Lord shows good taste," was Drexel’s comment. 
"I only hope his plan will succeed." 

When the dessert was before them, and the servants 
dismissed, a silence fell upon all four. Through the 
window opposite they could look across and down the 
stately street, to the very spot where kindly, old Jacob 
Traill had given up his life. 

It was Philip Girard who had been second on the 
scene, and who had wrested the weapon of death from 
the hand of the murderer. It was his call that had 


56 


MOlhIA 


brought to his side Dr. Vaughan and Roger Drexel, both 
of whom had been guests in Olive's dainty drawing-rooms 
on that unlucky night. 

Jacob Traill was a neighbor and well known to 
Vaughan and Girard. They had followed his body to 
the grave with sincerest sorrow, and, in the light of after 
events, had come to view the career of his murderer with 
growing interest and a strange sort of pity. 

To-day, as each one of them knew, the condemned 
man and his victim were before their last tribunal. The 
slayer of Jacob Traill had expiated his crime “between 
the hours of ten and two,’’ and Roger Drexel had been 
with him in his last moments. 

Finally, Philip Girard said abruptly: 

“Drexel, you have followed this poor fellow to the end 
of the world with an interest that has been a cause of 
wonder to both of us. Are you able to tell us why?" 

“I think you must admit that it has been a strange 
case throughout," he said. “The victim, a man so unof 
fending that I don't believe in all the universe another 
could be found who would shed his blood; the slayer, 
a man so reserved, so calm, so evidently not a common 
criminal or a criminal of any sort — his ready admission 
of guilt, his refusal to defend himself, or to take advan- 
tage of the thousand and one ‘extenuating circumstances’ 
that such legal advisers as his could have brought 
to the defense! When before, in all the history of crime, 
has a prisoner refused to accept insanity as a defense, 
a plea?" 

“He was the sanest man I ever examined," said Dr. 
Vaughan; “the coolest, the most quietly determined." 

“Undoubtedly. What was your final conclusion con- 
cerning the case?" 

“First," said the doctor, slowly, “there was, must have 
been, a strong motive — " 


AFTER THE TRAGEDY 


57 


"Say pressure," interrupted Drexel, dryly. 

"Well, perhaps that is the word. And the idea once 
fixed in his mind, he practically made an end of every- 
thing, so far as himself was concerned. I believe that 
from the moment when he decided to do the deed, he put 
all thought of his own personality out of his mind. He 
had no more interest in himself or in his life; he no 
longer had a future. From the moment when he con 
templated murder, he also contemplated death. If he 
had escaped arrest, he would have been found dead, 
somehow, somewhere, the next morning." 

Drexel nodded. 

"But his motive?” urged Philip Girard. "Do you 
know, I have learned a queer thing — one that has only 
come out since his death? Traill was a Socialist." 

"What!" Drexel turned upon him quickly. "Traill was 
a Socialist?" 

"Yes; not a rabid one, you may be sure, and not a 
very enthusiastic worker. He was just the good, sym- 
pathetic sort of a man who would go into such a dem- 
onstration, seeing only the helpful or pathetic side, and 
then draw back and condemn himself." 

"But that does not help on our question," said the 
doctor. "Drexel — come, have you the vaguest idea or 
hint to give us? Have you even been able to hazard a 
guess?" 

"I will tell you,” he answered, "but it must not be 
repeated. I know the truth, or a part of it.” He drew 
his chair nearer theirs, and lowered his voice. "Jacob 
Traill was sacrificed. He was the wrong man!" 

"The wrong man! Good heavens! Who, then, was the 
right man?” 

Drexel drew from his pocket a small packet like a thin 
bundle of letters, and from it drew , two photographs. 
One of them he put into the doctor’s hand. 


58 


MOINA 


"It is poor Traill," said Dr. Vaughan. 

In silence Drexel held out the other. 

The doctor took it, uttered a sharp exclamation, and 
let the second card fall to th^ floor. 

"Understand," said Drexel quietly, "this was not a 
confession. It was a discovery, and he did not indicate', 
even by a sign, this person” — he was bending to pick up 
the fallen picture; “but," as he laid the two side by 
side upon the table, "you see the resemblance." 

Girard bent over the two pictures. 

"Merciful powers!" he cried; "it^s Elias Lord — and 
what a resemblance! and yet two more widely different 
men could not be found. But, again, the motive, sup- 
posing it to be Lord that he meant to kill?" 

"That," said Drexel, "is the secret that is buried to- 
day in the grave of a nameless unknown, murdered." 

"But, Drexel, you who have gone thus far, do you go 
no further? Have you no suspicions?" 

Drexel was silent a moment, then, "I have a theory," 
he said; "but — don’t press this point; for the present 
I must not touch upon the matter. Only, believe me, if 
it proves tangible, you will hear it; and this will be but 
the beginning." 


CHAPTER VIII 


AN ANONYMOUS LETTER 

Mrs. Ralston did not take a house, as she had at first 
intended. For many years Mr. Lord, the millionaire 
banker and manufacturer, had been her stanch friend 
and adviser, had cared for her property, and materially 
increased it, and had in many ways proved himself a 
true friend, who counted no pains taken in her service. 
In the face of his urgent appeal, Mrs. Ralston could 
only turn to Madeline. And Madeline, knowing well 
how hard it would be for her to harden herself and con- 
demn her old friend to a cheerless, winter fireside, treat- 
ed the problem as a very trifling affair, and said gayly: 

“Why, godmother mine, you would not rest in your 
bed if you were to refuse Mr. Lord. It isn’t just what 
we expected, to be sure. Mr. Lord’s big mansion is a 
wide contrast to the cozy, wee house, ‘as near to Olive’s 
as possible, that we have planned for so long; but it’s a 
splendid abode, and we will try to live up to it. You 
can be a very stately dowager, if you ‘make an effort,’ 
and I’ll be the Mrs. Chick to urge you on.” 

And so Mrs. Ralstqn accepted the chatelaineship of Mr. 
Lord’s splendid mansion, and her conscience acquitted 
her. 

The late Mrs. Lord had been her own cousin, and a 
sister in manner and affection. Already she knew the 
house, and felt at home in it. 

And soon all was adjusted, and Madeline Payne, after 
five or six years of wandering, broken only by some 

59 


60 


MOINA 


months of art study abroad and two or three visits to 
New York — always with her friend and godmother, as 
she had lovingly named Mrs. Ralston — was at last at 
home in the great city — thoroughly at home, with her 
own apartments, her own maid, and her own horses and 
groom. 

One cloud only had cast its shadow over her other- 
wise happy home-coming. Claire Keith — bonnie Claire, 
from whom she had parted two years ago — was not among 
the welcoming group that awaited her. For more than 
a year Claire had slept in qmet Greenwood, and her 
husband and little son had found a home with Olive 
and Philip. 

As Claire Keith, Madeline had loved the girl well, and 
she had loved her even better when, as the wife of Dr. 
Clarence Vaughan and the happy mother of little 
Phil, she had kissed her good-bye and sailed away for 
the last time. Madeline and Mrs. Ralston had mourned 
her sincerely, and they mourned her still. 

But Claire, who had lived so bravely, died bravely too, 
looking behind the veil with a bright hope, and leaving 
for her absent dear ones words of faith and courage and 
cheer. There must be no lugubrious mourning for her — 
only the honest grief of hearts that loved her, and for 
the rest, bright flowers and pleasantest memories. 

And so Madeline, when for the first time she had vis- 
ited Claire’s grave at Greenwood, with only Mrs. Ralston 
and Olive and little Phil, took with her rarest roses and 
strewed them there above the bed of her who had lived so 
well and fallen asleep so sweetly. 

“Little Phil!’’ said Olive softly, caressing the boy’s 
dark curls, “if you had been a girl, you would not have 
been Philippa, but Madeline; she" — turning her eyes 
toward Madeline — “had planned it so." 

And Madeline kissed little Phil and cried softly. 


/IN ANONYMOUS LETTER 


61 


Before they had been a month domiciled under Mr. 
Lord’s roof, Madeline Payne and the elderly master of 
the house had become excellent comrades. They under- 
stood each other very well indeed, and Mr. Lord came 
freely and naturally to the girl with many things, pleas- 
ant, vexatious, puzzling, and otherwise, that he would 
never have dreamed of unfolding for the benefit of Mrs. 
Ralston, and in Madeline he found always an apprecia- 
tive, interested, sympathetic listener, and not seldom a 
helper and adviser as well. 

On her part, Madeline went to Mr. Lord for help of 
many kinds. He told her about people, and put them be- 
fore her in a clear and unconventional light. He gave 
her the benefit of his views and theories, and even un- 
raveled for her various political problems, national and 
local; for Madeline was a reader, a student, a constant 
seeker after new truths and old. 

The library in Mr. Lord’s mansion was a spacious 
room, well-lighted and splendidly equipped. It had al- 
ways been the especial haunt of the master of the house, 
and was seldom approached, except when in search of 
its presiding genius, by Mrs. Lord in her day, or by Mrs. 
Ralston in hers. 

Madeline, however, had found the cold and stately 
room greatly to her liking, and when she became as- 
sured that it pleased Mr. Lord to find her there when 
he came in for his hour or two before dinner, she in- 
dulged her preference unhesitatingly. 

It was early on a sultry afternoon, and she was sitting 
near a shaded window, slowly wielding a big Japanese 
fan, and reading in a leisurely fashion a novel by a new 
and much-wri tten-of American author, when Mr. Lord 
came in quite hurriedly, and flung himself into his accus- 
tomed seat, without seeming to see her at the remote 


02 


MOINA 


and shaded window; but finally he brought her a crum- 
pled letter. 

“‘Mr. Lord, Sur,' it began. 

“It is spelled s-u r," she interrupted, “and that word 
is not often misspelled, even by the very illiterate, ex- 
cept in novels.” 

“ ‘ This is to notify yew that onless yetv withd7'aw forever 
that wicked and ct’ewil sowcietty of tyrants that air banded 
together to oppress the poor a7td crtdsh the lay boring 7nan, 
t7'ubble will coTne to yeWj and all yewr 77iu7i7iy cannot purtect 
yew from Veangence.^” 

“Well," he asked lightly, “how does it strike you?" 

“This paper," she said, running her finger along the 
edge of the half sheet, “is good English letter-paper. 
The second half of the sheet may have had a monogram 
upon its face." She knit her brows and put the letter 
down, after a final look. 

“Well, well!" he said again. And when she lifted her 
eyes she saw that he was now quite grave. 

“Pardon me," she said; “you said something about a 
series?" 

He started and dropped his eyes for a second. 

“Yes,” with a short laugh, “I did. I simply meant 
that two others have received the same or similar docu- 
ments within the week." 

“Of course, you will not answer unless you choose. 
Those other fellows — I should like to know if they were 
the same — copies, I mean. You said — " 

“I said duplicates,” he answered promptly; "copies, 
I should think — similarly worded, at all events. Wh}^ 
do you ask?” 

“Because a woman has had a hand in that letter; per- 
haps not in writing it, but in some way." 

“A woman!" he ejaculated. 


AN ANONYMOUS LETTER 


63 


"Yes. A man that would use that kind of paper 
would use a larger size. Besides,” holding the crum* 
pled sheet near his face, ‘‘what man uses Japonica for a 
perfume? And that is not all. Look at the letter. It 
is a masculine hand, but written with a lady’s pen. See 
how delicate the strokes are, and how attenuated they 
make the big letters look.” 

“Look here,” she continued, pointing with a firm 
white finger upon the sheet, ‘‘and here; see this spelling, 
and this language. The woman who could frame that 
letter would have seen at once the incongruity between 
the language and the spelling, and she would have punc- 
tuated correctly! The letter was far from being the 
work of a fooJ; and a woman who was not a tool 
would be sure to possess that little, fine, seventh sense, 
which would guard against these errors of punctuating 
too well and spelling too ill.” 

"Oh!” he cried in a burst of admiration; "you’re 
right, you’re right! Detectives are born and not made. 

I would never have seen so far — nor any man. Madeline, 
I’ve engaged Vaughan for family physician; will you be 
the family detective?” 

"By all means,” laughed Madeline, little dreaming 
what was soon to come. 

For a long time after Madeline had left the library, 
Elias Lord sat there wrinkling his brow in thought. 
Finally he arose and shook himself as if to cast off some 
troublesome idea. 

"No,” he muttered, "I won’t; it would be pure non- 
sense. That affair and this cannot be connected. The 
letters are different altogether — and that was months 
ago. Heaven only knows where that came from! If I 
hadn’t the proof safely locked up, I might fancy it all a 
dream or a practical joke. But this,” glancing con- 


04 


MOINA 


temptuously at the letter upon the table, "is probably 
from some of those dastardly mill-hands. I won’t mix 
them up. Jove! I shouldn’t like to tell that story. 
I couldn^t make myself appear well in it— I couldn^t, 
really! ’’ 


CHAPTER IX. 


A NEW HOME 

Two weeks after their arrival in New York, Miles La 
Croix and his daughter were quite at home in the charm- 
ing new house which had been made ready for them with 
that ease and speed with which things can be done in a 
great city, where energy is at the helm and a full purse 
at its back. 

Miles La Croix had the tastes of an artist, and Moina 
blended those of artist and woman. Loving all things 
beautiful, and enabled for the first time in her short life 
to indulge that love to the full, she had entered with 
delight into the task of making for herself a dainty 
nest. 

Up to now. La Croix and his fellow-laborers had seen 
each other seldom, and with the utmost caution. One 
day, however, Rufus Crashaw came to the house. 

“Am I the first to see this new temple?" he asked, after 
some words of greeting. 

“Not quite; Savareis has been here several times. He 
has lent his aid to Moina in various ways," said the 
host. 

Crashaw frowned. “Was that prudent?" he asked. 

“I think it will not prove amiss. Since you make him 
your messenger quite frequently, and he must of neces- 
sity come and go often, he may as well appear in the 
character of friend of the family. The presence of a 
young lady in the house will make his frequent visits 
appear quite natural." 

Moina — s 


65 


66 


MOINA 


"Hamph!" The frown was still upon Crashaw’s brow, 
but he did not pursue the subject. 

“We have found a room suitable for our occasional 
meetings,” he said. “The sooner we assemble now, the 
better. It would not do to go there too often. We must 
have a second rendezvous.” 

“Come this way.” La Croix crossed the room and 
threw open the door of the small rear room, which Moina 
had called “an inner temple.” “Here, you see, we have 
a room entirely cut off from any possibility of approach. ” 

“Or of eavesdropping,” added Crashaw. “And do you 
design this room for a second place of meeting?" 

“Is it not a good one? This side street is very quiet. 
You can enter at that gate, and nobody need know that 
we are in session, if secrecy should be deemed .necessary. ” 
Suppose, then, we gather here to-night?” 

“I think it would be well,” said Miles La Croix. 

When Crashaw had gone, Moina returned to the studio, 
and standing close beside her father, said, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation: 

“I have been thinking lor the past two days, papa, 
about the young lady we met on the steamer — Miss 
Payne;, she asked me so cordially to call upon her. Of 
course I couldn’t ask her to call upon me, as we had no 
permanent residence, and she waived all that very 
sweetly. So, too, did her chaperone, Mrs. Ralston. 
They hoped they might be of service to me, and I think 
they meant it. I liked them both very much, and — ” 

“My dear,” he interrupted, smiling slightly, “did Miss 
Payne give you her address?” 

“Yes; at least she gave the address of a friend, a Mrs. 
Girard. She told me that her plans were not definitely 
settled, but that she should go first to her friend’s house.” 

“Then call upon Miss P4yne. She was indeed most 
kind to you, and you are totally without companions of 


A HOME 


67 


your own sex. Did you think 1 meant to make a hermit 
of you, my daughter?" 

"I fancied, on board the steamer, that Mr. Crashaw 
wanted me to avoid Miss Payne." 

Miles La Croix started, and a shadow crossed his face. 

"Moina, are you sure of what you say?” 

"Yes, papa, I am sure — quite sure." She dropped down 
upon the chair nearest him and went on, as if determined 
to free her mind upon this subject. "On two or three 
occasions Mr. Crashaw broke in upon our conversation 
in a manner not to be mistaken by me, and on two or 
three others — " She stopped abruptly and cast a depre- 
catory look at her father. 

"Go on, my child. Has he ventured to address you 
upon the subject?” 

"Yes; and I ignored all such remarks as concerned 
Miss Payne or my talks with her. Pm going to say 
something else — it^s unpleasant, and I feel — I feel 
ashamed to say it. But, tell me, please, have you no- 
ticed that he is much more polite to me — much more in- 
terested — and — and disagreeable — since I became my 
aunPs heiress?” 

"My daughter, are you sure of this?” 

The girks head was lifted, and pride shone in her eyes 
and spoke in her voice. 

"I have not been so fond of his society that I could 
well flatter myself or imagine such a thing. If the man 
were not so disagreeable to me, I should not have noticed, 
most likely, that he was exerting himself upon my ac- 
count. I hope that I love my fellow-creatures well 
enough to work side by side, if need be, even with Rufus 
Crashaw; but to have him forced upon me socially, to 
have him take advantage of his connection with you 
to annoy me — papa, you must not permit that!” ^ 

"And I will not, Moina. The thought is as distasteful 


68 


MOINA 


to me as to you. I never anticipated such a thing. How 
should I? Rufus Crashaw! ’’ 

A red flush was coming over his face, one of his hands 
began to tremble. He got up slowly and began pacing 
the floor. Moina watched him for a moment, and then 
without another word went softly out of the room. 

When she had gone, the old man turned toward the 
door which had closed behind her. 

“I must stand between them, ” he muttered. "The com- 
mon cur! How dare he! Rufus Crashaw, you may take 
my hand as an equal, but not hers. I have given my life 
to you and yours. But my Moina! I draw the line, if 
need be, between my life and hers. Mine you may have 
— hers, never!" 


CHAPTER X 


AMONG THE SOCIALISTS 

Moina La Croix found this New York a very fascinat- 
ing place, and her first call upon Madeline Pa3me the 
open sesame to many simple pleasures. The two girls 
were soon upon a most friendly footing. They drove 
and lunched and visited the parks together, and Moina 
found shopping in her new friend’s company a fresh de- 
light. In short, she was entering upon her simple social 
career triumphantly, having made conquest of Olive and 
Philip Girard, Mrs. Ralston, and Elias Lord, in turn. 

As yet she had made no other acquaintances; but Rene 
Savareis, whose boyish frankness and good spirits she 
found quite irresistible, was now daily at the new home 
on B — street. He had set up his easel in one corner of 
her father’s studio, and here for a time the two amateur 
artists painted a little nearly every day. 

One evening Moina La Croix sat beside Rene Sava- 
reis, upon a hard wooden chair, in a not too conspic- 
uous place in the big bare hall where the meetings of 
the Socialists were held. 

Upon the long platform in front, bare and uninviting 
in appearance, sat her father, a splendid presence, but 
looking out of place in the midst of his surroundings. 
Beside him Rufus Crashaw and half a dozen rough-look- 
ing men were grouped. 

Several persons spoke out when Miles La Croix con- 
fronted his audience; there was a movement as of 


70 


MOINA 


aroused curiosity or renewed interest. And then began 
a genuine outburst of fiery eloquence. 

The fine voice arose and thrilled, and rang down the 
long hall. The tall form grew more erect and pliant and 
commanding; the refined old face lighted with enthusi- 
asm, the fine eyes glowed and flashed. He spoke from 
his heart to the hearts of the people; not statistically, 
not with learned detail, not in plausible generalities. 
He told of the joy of working for the good of our fel- 
low-men; of the honor of belonging to unorganized band 
of noble men — organized to uplift the weak, to protect 
the helpless, to right the wrongs of the oppressed here 
in our midst and all the world over. He told of the 
helpfulness of banded goodness and wisdom, and of the 
power of it. He told how all over the world, this noble 
brotherhood was growing, growing; how its strength was 
increasing until finally oppression must yield. The 
world must come up to its standard. Might must bow 
to right made strong, and right must prevail. 

"Many good words are capable of better meanings," he 
said; "but one word there is that has no comparative, no 
better, no best. That word is ‘Right. ^ It is our watch- 
word. Bearing it aloft, we shall go' on, and nothing that 
opposes the right shall stand. We shall sound far and 
wide our warning. We will speak gently, hope and pray. 
But the right must prevail, and the high priests and 
apostles, as of old, must stand ready, unflinching, stead- 
fast. They must and will make way for the onward 
march of freemen —brothers in love, in hope, in life, and 
in death. Room for the new order! Make way for the 
right!” 

When they were out upon the pavement, a man who 
had been observing her closely stopped and stood gaz- 
ing for a moment after the receding figures of Moina and 
Savareis. Then taking up a position near the entrance, 


1 



72 




and a little in the shadow, he stood as if waiting for 
some one. 

“Well! “ 

He turned at the word spoken close at his ear. A 
young man of pleasing countenance and slouching gait 
and dress stood at his elbow. 

The waiting man drew him further into the shadow 
and said in an undertone : 

“Would you mind going back without me and waiting 
until I come?’’ 

“Without you?’’ There was surprise in the first words, 
and a good-humored acquiescence in the last: “Why, of 
course not. ’’ 

“Very good; go ahead, then." 

The two men turned in opposite directions, one strid- 
ing away toward the avenues, the other elbowing his way 
back again close to the entrance, and finally inside the 
vestibule. 

Presently a party of four came out, conversing in low 
tones as they made their way to the pavement. The 
waiting man recognized Miles La Croix, the speaker of 
the evening, Crashaw, and two of the platform satellites. 
As they passed he strolled out behind them. 

Still conversing and moving slowly, the four men 
walked to the nearest cab-stand, and there the two satel. 
lites said good-night and retraced their steps, while La 
Croix and Crashaw entered a cab. 

“Where to?" said the driver, as he shut them in. 

And Miles LaCroix^s clear voice answered: “Number 
goo B — street.” 

“Beg your pardon! " It was the voice of the loitering 
stranger, who was loitering so close to the cab at that 
moment as to come into direct contact with the driver 
as he stepped back after closing the door. 

With a surly acknowledgment of the apology, the man 


AMONG THE SOCIALISTS 


73 


mounted to his place and drove away. The stranger 
stepped quietly back, and by the light of the nearest 
electric burner wrote in a small note-book the address 
of Miles La Croix. 

"ICs a dwelling, Pm sure,” he murmured, as he put 
away the little book. “Pll look it up later. Now for 
Ken; ” and he sighed as he strode away. 


'Ts it you, so soon, old man? Well done, and wel- 
come. ” 

The face of the speaker was the pleasing face of the 
young man who had parted from the inquiring stranger 
at the door of the lecture hall. But the garments and 
the bearing were not the same. The first had given place 
to well-made trousers and waistcoat, immaculate linen 
and a velvet smoking-coat, and the latter had become 
carelessly graceful. 

As the door closed upon the latest arrival, the young 
man crossed the room with an unlighted cigar in his 
hand, to stand before him and to survey him with a laugh- 
ing face. 

"Upon my word, old fellow,” he continued, “this is a 
lark — for you. I confess I don’t understand it yet.” 

"If you don’t mind waiting until I get off these ‘insig- 
nia of rank,’” the other said lightly, “I’ll try and help 
you. ” 

He swept aside a heavy curtain and disappeared behind 
it, while his friend returned to his lounging-chair and 
lighted his cigar. 

The room in which he^ sat was his own, and beyond it 
were two others, making an exquisitely fitted suite of 
bachelor apartments. All was luxurious, refined, taste- 
ful. And the young man, who sat gazing about him with 
a queer smile upon his lips, looked the fitting master of 


74 


MOISA 


the place — a slender, blonde young fellow, with delicate 
features, handsome blue eyes, and a sensitive mouth. 

As his eyes wandered about the room, the smile sud-' 
denly faded from his face, the corners of the fine mouth 
drooped, and the whole expression became one of sad- 
ness that was almost pathetic. He was looking at a lit- 
tle velvet case upon a bracket just opposite him. The 
case was closed, and a tiny key glistened in the lock. It 
was a picture-case, and no chance visitor in Kenneth 
Hosmer’s apartments had ever seen it opened. 

While he sat thus, the portiere was thrust aside, and 
the man who had entered as a middle-aged working-man 
came out, middle-aged no longer, and no longer a work- 
ing-man. It was a tall, muscular young man, with 
strongly molded and regular features, keen, dark eyes, 
a firm chin, and broad brow, who seated himself opposite 
his host — none other, in fact, than our friend Roger 
Drexel. 

“Well, Ken,” said he, are you thinking of that fiery 
old foreigner and his fine oratory?" 

“No,” said the .other, rousing himself, “not exactly.” 

“Of course he pleased you?” 

“Yes; and you?” 

“Oh, I acknowledge his eloquence, and admit that I 
did not count upon anything like that when I set out 
with you to cure you of socialism. Sincerel}^, Ken, I 
feel my responsibility in this business. Why won't you 
be content to let all this alone, for the present at least?” 

The other got up with an impatient gesture. 

“I have told you why, Drexel. I must have occupa- 
tion, cr I shall grow morbid and worse. Why, in heav- 
en’s name, do you try to dissuade me now? We went 
into this thing together in our callow days, when we 
were full of enthusiasm and belief in the work. At first 
I was as rabid as yourself, only—" 


y4MONG THE SOCALISTS 


75 


“No, Ken, not quite. Three years ago I was an idiot, 
but I was honest in my ideas — I called them my convic- 
tions then. That’s the only excuse I can offer for myself. 
Socialism was raging abroad then. Wherever I went — 
Paris, St. Petersburg, Heidelberg, even Florence — chance 
or fate threw me among those fiery, eloquent, foreign en- 
thusiasts. I became the convert of a young Russian 
who was as gifted as he of the golden tongue. You 
know what he preached, and how I came home and 
preached it to you. We were to be a power for good, 
to bring about the millennium of right and justice all over 
the world. It was to be a new crusade." 

“Was to be!” echoed Hosmer, impatiently. 

Drexel was silent a moment, then he got up and stood 
before his friend. 

“We have not seen much of each other during the past 
year, Ken," he said, almost wistfully. “Tell me, do you 
really believe that?" 

“Believe what?" 

“That Utopian dream of ours. Do you believe that the 
brotherhood can or will do these things?" 

“Yes." 

“You think that the hour has struck — that the right 
man, the right men, are at hand?" 

Kenneth glanced awry as he moodily answered: 

“I think that one of the ‘right men’ has suddenly gone 
wrong, or threatens to." 

“And you intend to go on, Ken?" 

“How do you mean?" 

“Don’t you know what I mean? Are you going to move 
with the rest — to act with them?" 

“To act? Well, I’m willing enough, but I don’t see 
much chance for immediate action." 

"Ken” — Drexel came a step nearer, and his face soft- 
ened as he looked down upon his friend — “tell me, since 


76 


MOIN/1 


I left you, almost at the threshold of the society, what 
have you done? — how much have you advanced? Have 
you been an active member, a regular attendant, or — " 

Kenneth got up quickly and walked to the nearest 
window. He was silent for a long moment, then he 
spoke without turning: 

“For two months after you left New York, Drexel, I 
was a faithful neophyte. At the end of that time — she 
came back!” His voice sounded husky, and Drexel 
started and involuntarily moved a pace toward him. 
“She had been away a year,” Kenneth went on, “and 
for another two months all my time was given to her.” 
He paused again. “Then came her illness and — her 
death. You know how it all was, Drexel; for months I 
never so much as thought of the cause, or of my brethren 
and their work. But when I did think of them" — he 
turned and came back to his place, “and went to them, 
it helped me to bear my burden — and to forget." 

They were both silent for a little time, then Kenneth 
asked, still in the sam'e tone: 

“Drexel, have you wearied of the society?" 

“Wearied? No." 

“Why did you ask me to go to that meeting to-night?" 

“Because I had heard 5^ou say that you had never at- 
tended one of those public demonstrations." 

“Bah! what a coarse and common lot they were! And 
those orators I Did you kriow the old man was to be one 
of them?" He looked up suddenly. 

“No; that was not in my programme." 

“I see! you wanted to show me the repulsive side, to 
weaken me — to shock my inherent, aristocratic sensibili- 
ties, eh?" 

Drexel uttered a short laugh. 

“If so, I did not succeed." 

“No; I don^t know how it would have been but for 


AMONG THE SOCIALISTS 


77 


that fine old man and his fiery eloquence — ^La Croix, was 
not that the name?” 

"Yes.” 

"Well, the bombastic man, the man of adjectives, and 
the man of statistics had rather dashed my enthusiasm, 
I confess. I was saying to myself, 'Mr. Kenneth Hosmer, 
these are your co-workers, your brother emancipators — how 
do you take them?* A.nd I was feeling a trifle lukewarm 
— what, with having to hear them and to see these un- 
washed men and red-ribboned women — when that old man 
got up. As he sat down, ‘This meeting, these wordy 
orators, are but incidents in the onward march. They 
will be weeded out or left behind. Only the worthy will 
go on to the end.’ Oh, that grand old man! He has 
helped me. Once more I feel that I have still an object 
in living.” 

Drexel was silent. 

“Come," persisted his friend; "this La Croix, who is he? 
Do you know him?” 

"I? No.” 

“Well, then, don’t you want to? Don’t you admire 
him?" 

“Yes; he is a powerful man, and a dangerous one.” 

"Dangerous! that man — how?" 

“Because he is an enthusiast and an idealist. He sees 
all that is best, loftiest, most splendidly daring in social- 
ism; and he cannot see, being the man he is, the evil 
and the danger and the petty aims that may, and must, 
creep in.” 

"Drexel, what’s come over you?” 

“I’ll tell you, Ken; I am seized with a hideous sense of 
my own responsibility, of the harm I have done or may 
yet do. It was I who made you a Socialist.” 

"Yes, you did me that good turn.” 

"Let’s waive that, Kenneth; will you do me one now?" 


78 


MOINA 


“P 11 try." 

“I am going away for a time, and I want to ask you to 
let this thing drop until we meet again.” 

“Why?” 

“I can’t tell you why; you must take me upon trust.” 

“By Jove! but you ask a great deal.” 

“I know it." 

“I can’t, Drexel.” Kenneth came again and stood be- 
fore his friend. “Pm pledged to go forward. Since I 
first became an associate I have stood at the threshold, 
but at the next meeting Pm to take the second step, and 
after that — ” 

Drexel made a gesture that was almost despairing, and 
for a moment turned away his face. 

“After that I shall have no more to say,” he said grim- 
ly. Kenneth laid a hand upon his arm. 

“Drexel," he said, “tell me, are you going back?” 

A moment of silence, then, “No," said Drexel; “and 
yet you ask me to.” Kenneth reddened and withdrew 
his hand. “Let it pass, Ken. What we have said must 
be forgotten. You will not think of it again?” 

“You knew that; but, old man, if you are not going to 
forsake us, what are you going to do?" 

“Since you won’t come my way, I am going yours." 

“Really? Then you will come up with me. You will 
join the Second Circle, and we will go on together 
through the next and the next. Drexel, have you been 
quizzing me? Will you come?" 

“No, Ken; that’s out of the question.” 

“And why?" 

“Because I have already taken the second step, and 
the next, and the next.” 

"What!" Kenneth Hosmer’s face became red and then 
pale. “You are — then you can — ” 

“But say” — Drexel put out his hand; the gesture was 


AMONG THE SOCIALISTS 


79 


friendly enough, but his face was gloomy. "I have asked 
a favor. I have no commands to give — not now.” 

The two young men stood confronting each other, face 
to face; and two duelists would not have looked much 
different. 


CHAPTER XI 


MADELINE IS RETAINED 

Roger Drexel, the young man of fashion, the lion and 
favorite of society, the possessor of a fortune; who 
was commonly supposed to have nothing to do and to 
be quite content to do nothing, was in truth a detective 
from pure love of adventure. 

“The one thing that I insist upon is my perfect incog- 
nito," he had said to the police inspector. "If I were 
to become known as a detective, half of my usefulnesses 
gone. If I do anything, you and your force must take 
the consequences— yes, and the rewards. I shall find my 
satisfaction in the work.” 

Between Roger Drexel and Madeline Payne there had 
existed, since their earliest acquaintance, a very sincere 
friendship, a mutual understanding that was perfect, and 
of a rare sort. These two young people, each possess- 
ing a strong individuality, and each something of an 
enigma to friends and acquaintances, were not such 
riddles to each other, and even where mutual understand- 
ing ceased, mutual confidence remained. 

When Moina La Croix had left her, after spending 
a pleasant half- hour, Madeline gave some thought to 
Roger Drexel and an expected call from him. She was 
sitting alone in her room, thinking, with a serious face, 
when a servant brought her a message from Mr. Lord. 
Would she come to him in the library? It would 
greatly oblige him, and he would not detain her long. 
Hastening to the library, she found her host pacing the 

80 


MADELINE IS RETAINED 


81 


room, a frown upon his face and a crumpled yellow 
paper in his hand. 

“Oh, my little counselor," he cried, as she approached 
him; “you see how 1 begin to lean upon you. Look at 
this, if you please; ” and he thrust the yellow paper in 
her hand. 

“Why, Mr. Lord, it’s another!" 

“Yes,” he assented quietly, “it is." 

“Mr. Lord, do these letters cause you any serious ap- 
prehension? " 

The banker brought a hand down upon his knee with 
pleased emphasis. “There!” he said, “you have brought 
me squarely to the point. No, I can’t say that they ex- 
actly cause me serious apprehension; but I’ll tell you 
what I said to myself to-day: ‘Elias Lord, you 
are a reasonably cautious man, I hope, and you can 
be reasonably cautious in this matter without being 
particularly alarmed, and in spite of a good deal 
of skepticism. You have been threatened, warned, 
or whatever you please to call it. Probably it will all 
end in smoke, but possibly it may not. Other men — 
your betters, perhaps, and quite as harmless — have been 
shot in the back or stuck in the ribs by an assassin, and 
nobody seemed to know why. It’s the part of prudence 
for you to say to somebody. Look, some one is threaten- 
ing to do me a mischief. If mischief is done me, re- 
member what I have told you.’" 

“Do you mean," began Madeline, slowly, “by that, 
that you constitute me — ” 

“I mean this,” he broke in hurriedly; “I have really 
little fear of this bugaboo, but I would be a fool not to 
give it a thought, knowing as I must, having ears to hear 
and eyes to read the newspapers, that cranks are abroad 
in the land, and that their present craze is for assassina- 
tion. I feel strong enough to outwit any one' crank, but 
Main a — 6 


82 


MOIhlA 


if anything should happen, don't you see, and I, out of 
self-confidence, have suppressed these documents, I am 
defeating the ends of justice. It is not every old fellow," 
he went on, "who is so lucky as to have a clear-headed 
young woman, with a natural instinct for affairs, among 
his friends. I feel perfectly safe in your hands.” He 
leaned back in his chair and smiled grimly. "If any- 
thing mysterious happens to me, you will not go into 
hysterics. You will set to work as — as I would in your 
place. ” 

Madeline’s face was very grave now. She was silent 
for some moments, while he seemed to be enjoying her 
graceful, intent pose and the fine lines of her half-averted 
face. Suddenly she turned her clear, straight, upward 
gaze full upon him. 

"Mr. Lord,” she said earnestly, "if I were you I would 
put this matter into the hands of a detective." 

"Bless us!” he cried, "isn’t that what I have done? 
Look here,. Madeline!” — he got up suddenly, and all of 
his fine, old-fashioned gallantry fell away from him in 
his earnestness — "I drop all question of ability, and 
make it one of inclination. Hang your professional 
detectives! I don’t want one within a hundred yards of 
me. You’re detective enough for me. It’s born in you. 
Honestly now, did I make a great blunder in coming to 
you with this concern? Has it annoyed you?” 

"No, Mr. Lord; don’t think that for a moment.” 

"Well, then, Las it grown monotonous? Have you had 
enough of it?” 

"I appreciate your confidence, and if it pleases you to 
confide in me further, I beg of you to do so. I am in- 
terested. " 

"Now listen: if harm should happen to me, would you 
then regret having any knowledge of this business?” 


MADELINE IS RETAINED 


83 


"No" — clear and straight came her answer — "not if 
I might use my knowledge as I thought best." 

"You may, I assure you.” 

"Then, Mr. Lord, do not hesitate to tell me whatever 
you choose.” She took up the letter and read it again. 

"It’s not the same hand," she said. 

"No; but it’s wording is almost identical with the first." 

"Yes; that, of course, was intentional." 

"Yes; and for effect." 

"Probably. May I ask how you received this?" 

"Not through the mail, like the other. It happened at 
the bank — one of the book-keepers picked it up off the 
floor; it was folded as you see, but not inclosed in an 
envelope, and it was addressed— look on the other side — 
conspicuously large, you see. Must have been tossed in 
at one of the clerk’s windows during a rush." 

"Yes." 

A servant parted the heavy curtains that hung before 
the door of entrance, at that moment. 

"Mr. Drexel’s compliments — and can he speak with 
Miss Payne at once?” he said. 


CHAPTER XII 


A SPY 

Roger Drexelleft Madeline’ s boudoir and the presence 
of the three ladies with a puzzled smile upon his face. 

He had not been slow to recognize in Moina La Croix 
the young woman he had seen for the first time at the 
Socialists’ meeting. That they should meet again, and 
here, impressed him as being somewhat odd. 

He had driven to the door in a hansom, and as he ran 
quietly down the stately steps to his waiting vehicle, his 
observant eye noted the uncouth figure of a man who 
was slouching past the house and casting furtive glances 
up at the great windows. 

“I want to watch that little man in the butternut 
clothes,” he said to the driver; “follow him with the 
carriage if you can." 

"All right, sir.” 

For some time the spy hung about, always keeping 
the street door in sight. But when it opened, and 
Moina La Croix came forth and walked away briskly, 
he withdrew his gaze from the house and followed the 
fair pedestrian. 

For some distance Moina continued her promenade, 
but at last she approached a cab-stand, and entering 
a cab drove swiftly away. For a moment the spy 
seemed to hesitate, watching the direction taken by 
Moina’s cab, then he turned and plunged down a side 
street. 

“Ah, ha!” muttered Drexel; “he knows where she is 

84 


A SPY 


85 


going, or thinks he does, and he is taking a shorter cut.’’ 

For some time the spy hurried on like a man who knows 
his way, then coming upon a florist’ s window he stopped, 
looked within, and finally entered, coming out a minute 
after, carrying a small basket of flowers. Meantime Drexel 
had left his carriage, and now followed slowly until they 
both came to a halt, the spy two doors from the house 
which Drexel knew to be the home of “La Croix the So- 
cialist,’’ as he mentally named him, and Drexel himself 
was nearly opposite, where he loitered carelessly. The 
spy moved slowly now and seemed to be seeking to as- 
sure himself that he had found the right number. He 
faced the house of La Croix, walking slowly and looking 
up at the windows. Then' he retraced his steps, and after 
a little more hesitation, went up to the door and rang 
the bell. At the same moment a fleecy curtain that was 
fluttering at an open window of the second floor was 
drawn back and Roger Drexel saw, with a start of sur- 
prise, a girl’s face looking out and down the street. It 
was the face of Moina La Croix and she yet wore her 
hat and mantle as he had seen her last. 

Suddenly the truth flashed upon him. 

“That was the namel’’ he said to himself; “La Croix 
was the name! I wonder if she can be that old man’s 
daughter? ’’ 

Moina was gone from the window in a moment and she 
had not glanced near the street. Drexel now turned his 
attention back to the spy. A servant had opened the 
door. He could guess that a question was asked and 
answered in the affirmative, and the box was passed over 
to the servant, and the bearer turned away, going slowly 
until he had reached the street-corner, where he paused 
to look back. 

Drexel, who was still his shadow, looked back also, 
and then he forgot the man he was following, in the sur- 


86 


MOINA 


prise of the moinent. A carriage driven rapidly from an 
opposite direction had stopped before the La Croix house, 
and three men sprang out one after another, as if in 
haste. 

The first man was Rufus Crashaw, whom Drexel rec- 
ognized, having seen him more than once. The second 
man was slender and handsome, and he knew him, too, 
as the escort of Moina on the night of the Socialist meet- 
ing. The third he knew only too well — it was his friend 
Kenneth Hosmer. 

"Already!” muttered Drexel; "confound their enter- 
prise. ” 

As the three ascended the^ steps, Kenneth and the 
handsome stranger going first, Mr. Crashaw paused a 
moment with his face turned toward the man in the but- 
ternut clothes, and Drexel clearly saw a signal exchanged 
between the two. In another moment the last three ar- 
rivals had been admitted, "as if they were expected,” 
Drexel thought, and then the butternut man dived down 
the cross street and our detective hurried after him. 

"At least, my butternut friend, Lll see where you bur- 
row,” he muttered. 

But the butternut man made straight for the nearest 
saloon, and began to enjoy himself like one whose day’s 
work is done. 

After loitering in the vicinity half an hour, and assur- 
ing himself that the spy was really off duty, Drexel noted 
the name and number of the little basement saloon, and 
then taking the first hansom at hand, was driven back to 
Mr. Lord’s, where he rang with haste and asked to see 
Miss Payne again. 

Madeline came down and found him waiting almost at 
the threshold of the little reception-room, hat in hand. 

"You will pardon my importunity I trust. Miss Payne, ” 
he began hastily. "Since leaving you this afternoon I 


A SPY 


87 


have found that, as a matter of duty, I must be in an- 
other place than here this evening. Even now I cannot 
stay to explain as I ought. But something I must say 
— something I must ask. In leaving your presence, not 
long since, I chanced upon a strange discovery.” 

And while Madeline stood amazed before him, he re- 
lated briefly the discovery of the spy and the secret of 
his pursuit, omitting only the fact of Kenneth Hosmer’ s 
presence at the La Croix door. When all was told and 
Madeline continued silent, he said: ‘‘I have not told you 
this from any light motive, I beg you to believe. There 
is a reason, a strong reason, for my present strange con- 
duct. Miss Payne, will you tell me something more of 
this young lady? What is her name?” 

"Did you not understand? Her name is Moina La 
Croix. ” 

“Do you know her well?” 

"Yes, I think so.” If Madeline felt surprise at these 
questions her face did not express it. 

“And do you know her people?” 

“I have met her father, who is, I believe, her only liv- 
ing relative — ” 

“And who is a tall, white-haired man, stately and 
picturesque — a foreigner.’ 

"I see that you know the La Croix.” 

"I will tell you how well I know them; I must ask 
you to regard all that I now say as a confidence.” 

“If you intend to tell me anything concerning Miss 
La Croix— anything which she ought to know,” began 
Madeline, and then added abruptly, “but go on, Mr. 
Drexel; you have my promise.” 

It was the sudden gleam of his fine eye that brought 
out these last words. It was as if he had said, “You for- 
get that I am a gentleman,” 

“Some time ago,” he began, “I chanced to be at the 


88 


MOlN/f 


close of a public gathering, very near to a lady and gen- 
tleman who were embarrassed by the crowd. 1 helped to 
make their exit a little easier. I did not catch the name 
as you introduced your friend to-day, but I recognized 
her as the young lady of that occasion. I also chanced 
to notice a rather unsavory looking fellow in that crowd 
simply because he was so ugly and crafty of aspect. I 
must make my story short, Miss Payne. Upon leaving 
here I chanced to see the same fellow watching this 
house. " 

Madeline was silent for some moments; then, “Do you 
really attach much importance to this affair, Mr. Drexel? ’’ 

He hesitated. 

“I think it has its meaning,” he said at last; “I hoped 
for a little light, a clue at least, from you.” 

“I have been thinking,” she began hesitatingly. “I 
have an idea, based upon your description of one of the 
men you saw drive to the door. You say he was short 
and stout — was he also ruddy in face? In short, did he 
look like an Englishman?’ 

“Yes, I think he did. ” 

“Then let me tell you how I came to know the La 
Croix. Sit down Mr. Drexel.” She drew forward a 
chair and he took another opposite her. The look of 
perplexity was fading out of her face — a look of relief 
was taking its place. 

“After all, perhaps it is only the folly of a jealous 
man, but all the same I thank you, Mr. Drexel, for your 
kindly interest in my friend. Yes, I see it all now, and 
I owe it to you to explain.’’ 

And she told him of her meeting with Moina La 
Croix on board the steamer, of their voyage and the 
growth of their acquaintance, and of Crashaw and 
Moina’s aversion to him. When all was told, she 
added: 


A SPY 


8U 

"Seriously, Moina ought to know of this; may I tell 
her? ” 

"I beg that you will not. It will make me look quite 
as much a meddler as this fellow Crashaw. If it is 
only a case of jealousy, it is clearly out of our province. 
And now I must go. By the way, perhaps I ought not 
to forestall Mr. Lord; but it is not a secret, I suppose. 
He has been made president of the R. M. P. ” He 
laughed lightly, but Madeline’s face was grave. 

"Mr. Drexel, is there really such a society?” 

"Well, it isn’t called ihe . ‘Rich Man’s Protective,’” he 
replied; "although it might very well be. Yes, there is 
such a society, and it is strong in its bank account if not 
in its numbers. Some of our great merchants, bankers 
and manufacturers have organized for the protection of 
their business and their property. Perhaps after aii it 
is none too soon.” 

When Drexel had gone Madeline sat down and mused 
with a troubled face. She knew how bitter Mr. Lord 
could be when aroused by the disunions of strikers, 
trades unions, socialism, etc. She had heard something 
of this projected organization of capital in its own 
defense. The objects of this new union she believed 
to be protective and if need be, aggressive. She had 
heard its possibilities discussed more than once. It was 
to bring together a great fund to be used for the protec- 
tion of its members and their interests. 

If such a society had really sprung into being, it 
was because there was, or seemed to be a reason for its 
existence; and if Mr. Lord was one of its promotors, its 
officers, was he not more or less openly arrayed against 
the trades unions, strikers. Socialists? 

Viewed in the light of this discovery, the two anony- 
mous letters took on a new significance. Yes, and Mr. 


90 


MOWA 


Lord’s confidence too, stood forth in a stronger light. 
His reasons for choosing her as a “counseJor” became 
more apparent. Thinking of these things, Moina La 
Croix vvas for the time forgotten, and Madeline set her 
lips in fine lines and paced the floor, studying upon this 
new problem. Elias Lord had not trusted this beautiful, 
courageous, disciplined woman without a good reason. 
Years before a certain Lionel Payne had made for him- 
self a record as a detective, brilliant if brief. He died a 
martyr to his profession in the first years of his success; 
otherwise, the world would have known him and given 
him high rank among the detectives who bring to their 
work as much of genius as ever Mozart put into music, 
Rubens and Titian into their art, or Demosthenes or Cic- 
ero into oratory. This Lionel Payne was the father of 
Madeline, and Madeline was her father’s child — his in 
face, and voice, and manner — his in courage, sagacity, 
clearness and rapidity of thought. Once in her life, 
while she stood at its very threshold, fateful circum- 
stances had combined to test these qualities in her and 
she had been equal to the emergency. Fatherless and 
motherless, she had stood up single-handed against 
strong enemies, and had come off conqueror — conqueror of 
her enemies and over herself. Never, at his bravest and 
strongest, had Lionel Payne, the detective, shown him- 
self braver and stronger than Madeline Payne, the de- 
tective’s daughter, in her time of trial and danger. 

"I must know,” she said to herself, "first of all, how 
long the society has been in contemplation, when it was 
actually organized, and how soon after his elevation to 
office these letters came to Mr. Lord." 

Meanwhile, Roger Drexel was communing with him- 
self after another fashion. 

"If it had been a man,” he mused, "I should not have 
hesitated; but I have no right to shake her confidence 


A SPY 


91 


in her friend -at least not yet. I would give something, 
though, to be sure that Miss Madeline Payne would meet 
my confidence half-way. And then after a moment of 
silent meditation he broke out: "Strange how that girl 
and her queer surroundings* have put all thought of 
Lord and his possible danger out of my headl ’’ 


CHAPTER XIII 


PRINCESS SACHA 

“Well,” said Drexel, half an hour afterward, entering 
the office of a friend, "here am I, Captain; how long 
had your letter been lying on my floor in Rose street?” 

"Since last evening, Hurst," said the captain. "Pve 
made an appointment for you to meet a lady at the 'Oc- 
cidental/ " 

"Well, explain further — can*t you. Captain?" 

"There’s very little to say. Yesterday a lady, young 
and beautiful, visited me, asked for a private interview, 
and told me that she desired to secure the services of 
the best detective the city could boast. She cared noth- 
ing about his price, but stipulated that he must be 
strictly a reliable, truthful man, and a gentleman.” 

"Really! ” said Drexel; "and you have made an appoint- 
ment for me?" 

"Yes; I could do no less, really — and you are bound 
to nothing. The lady’s requirements were such that no 
other man would fill the bill. She did not want a mem- 
ber of any force. She must have a man who was 
answerable to no one — a man who could give even years 
to her service. She had crossed the ocean to prosecute 
a search, she said, and was prepared to spend a fortune 
in it. She is a foreigner." 

"Ah, indeed! " 

"She makes one stipulation which is rather odd. The 
detective must be absolutely above suspicion of being 
a Nihilist or Socialist." 


93 





♦‘MADAMK,’' SAID DHEXEL, “I COME FROM THE CHIEF OF POLICE. 

— Moina, p. 94. 


94 


MOINA 


Drexel started and flashed a quick look toward the 
captain. 

“Then I stand committed.’’ 

An hour later he was at a fashionable hotel, where 
there confronted him a vision of beauty clad in crimson, 
with luminous dark eyes and glowing cheeks — graceful, 
self-poised, a trifle haughty, and altogether fearless in 
look and attitude. 

“Madame,” said Drexel, “I came from the chief of 
police. ” 

“It is necessary for me to be quite frank,” the lady 
replied. “In my own country, -which is Russia, I am 
known as the Princess Sacha Orloff. Here I shall be 
merely Sacha Orloff. I am come to seek one who is very 
dear to me — one who has, I believe, been foully be- 
trayed. It is not a light thing that I ask you to do; 
and it may be you will have to contend with organ- 
ized enemies — strong, powerful, dangerous. I am not 
seeking a living man, monsieur; I dare not hope to 
find him living. I am seeking to unravel the mystery 
of his fate— to know who have been his betrayers, his 
jailers, his executioners. Only show me how he died, 
and by whose hand, and the rest, the rest — ah, I shall 
know howto finish the work!” She shut her lips tightly, 
and her eyes gleamed while her cheeks paled. 

“Mademoiselle Orloff,’’ said Drexel smilingl3q ''3'ou 
have not told me enough; I cannot decide upon so vague 
an understanding.’’ 

“We are safe from interruption here,” she said. “I will 
begin: My father was Ivan Dreickoff, a Russian officer 
of the Czar. My mother died when I was very young, 
and I was consigned to the care of a good woman, one 
Madame Petralowski, a widow whose husband had also 
been a soldier of Russia. Madame Petralowski had one 
child, a son. We were of nearly the same age, and 


PRINCESS SACHA 


95 


grew up together as brother and sister. When Basil 
Petralowski was eighteen he went from home to 
study, and not long after Prince Orloff came to Mos- 
cow to visit some estates in that vicinity. Prince 
Orloff had been, it was said, in some sort a 
patron and benefactor of Paul Petralowski, the father 
of Basil, and he professed an interest in the son. He 
came to see madame, and he saw me. He came again 
and again. Then my father, who had not visited me for 
two years, came one day and told me that he had prom- 
ised me in marriage to Prince Orloff. The prince Was 
sixty and I was sixteen. Perhaps you know how we are 
dealt with in Russia. I was married to Prince Orloff, 
and my father soon after was elevated to a place in the 
royal palace by the favor of Prince Orloff. Monsieur, I 
will not dwell upon this time. We soon came to live a 
part of each year upon the great estate near Warsaw, and 
after nearly three years, Basil Petralowski came home. 
We met often, and resumed our friendly relations. I 
had never given up my good second mother, and I went 
often to her home. Monsieur, I charge myself with the 
ruin of Basil Petralowski, not intentionally, the dear 
mother knows. We had been as brother and sister so 
long, how could I tell that the prince would be jealous? 
But it was so. He was furiously jealous, and we quite 
unconscious of it all. There is not much more to tell, 
monsieur. One day Basil was missing. Search was 
made, of course. Many things were said. He never 
came back; we never saw him again. But once, months 
after, the prince, who was a wine-drinker and would say 
anything vile when he was filled with wine, let me know 
that Basil had been gotten away because of me — ‘re- 
moved,’ he said; and he said that I would never see him 
alive again. Soon the prince died. He had found >no 
new occasion for jealousy, and he was kind enough to 


90 


MOIN/4 


say that I had been very kind to him during a long ill- 
ness, so he left me his fortune. ” Up to this time she had 
told her story in a quiet, suppressed manner, almost as if 
she were reciting some very dull details necessary to be 
known. Now she came and stood erect before him. 

“He left me his fortune,” she resumed, her face kin- 
dling to a fierce glow, “and I intend to make it help 
me to find Basil Petralowski, alive or dead." 

“If I have understood you, madame, ” remarked Drexel, 
“this young man disappeared from Moscow. Why are 
you searching for him here?” 

“Ah, true!” she said; “I have not yet told you that. 
Three months ago I received a line from him in his own 
handwriting. It was sent from this city. It looked as 
if it had been written and then carried about for a long 
time before sending. It contained a farewell — a farewell 
for all time; nothing more.” 

He was silent a moment; then, “You believe, do you 
not, that Prince Orloff knew something of this removal? " 

“Did I say that?” she asked, quietly. 

“Only by implication, madame.” 

“Then I will not; he was my husband.” 

“Of course you understand that, if I take the case, 
there must be no reserve. I must have a full account 
of many things. A single evasion might make neces- 
sary a journey to Russia.” 

“To Russia!” Once again she was startled out of her 
self-control. “But, monsieur, your work is here!” 

“We will not enter into that now. Tell me, madame, 
why did you stipulate for a detective who was not a So- 
cialist? ” 

But she was not to be taken off her guard this time. 

“Why! ” she ejaculated. “Ah, monsieur, if you were a 
Russian you would not need to ask that. Our Nihilist is 
bound body and soul to the cause he serves. Is not your 


PRINCESS S^CH/1 


97 


Sociali^'t tlie -same? I want a man who owns himself. 
Do you not see?” 

“Surely” — he came and took up his hat. “Madame, I can 
give you no definite answer now; perhaps not for two or 
three days to come. There are other matters to be dis- 
posed of first. I hope that I may be able to serve you, 
but can say no more than this now. If you are willing 
to wait — " 

“I will wait, monsieur, if I must.” 

Roger Drexel left the presence of the Princess Orloff, 
to return a few moments later to the office of the cap- 
tain. 

“I thought you would come back,” was the captain^ s 
greeting. 

“Yes,” said Drexel, in a preoccupied manner. “Is your 
little Norton in town, Captain?” 

“Yes, do you want him?” 

“Him, or another of the same sort. I want a man sent 
to the ‘Occidental,’ where my charming possible cl ient is 
stopping, and keep an eye upon all her movements until 
further orders." 

Sacha Orloff, Drexel had already decided, was neither 
artless nor unsophisticated. She was a beautiful and 
dangerous woman; and thinking this, he drew out his lit- 
tle note-book, in which no record remained after it had 
served its purpose, and wrote upon a fresh leaf: "Mem. 
— To learn when S. O. came to N. Y. and all possible 
connected with said arrival. To communicate with Dol- 
loway at St. Petersburg concerning same.” 

“Pll give that business a night’s study,” he muttered, 
and then dispatched a district messenger with the fol- 
lowing note for Kenneth Hosmer; 

“Dear Ken: If possible, be at your quarters at or near 
midnight; business is important; time of value. 

“Roger. ” 


Moina — 7 


CHAPTER XIV 


drexel’s perplexities 

“I want you to do a little further masquerading, Ken, 
and this will be a more serious job,” said Drexel to his 
friend that evening, in his own apartments. 

‘‘What in the name of wonder are you driving at, 
Drexel?” 

"Just this. We have here numberless societies that 
claim to be with us in a vague and general way. Well, 
the command has come now to try our brethren, to see 
of what metal they are made. It is thought important, at 
this stage of events, that the depth an.d fervor of these 
3nthusiasts be sounded. It is desirable to know how far 
these men will go if actual work begins, and in what di- 
rection. ” 

‘‘Do you expect to make a personal canvass?” asked 
Kenneth, derisively. 

"Something like that. For instance, here,” opening 
one of the papers in his hand, "the society whose name 
you will find at the head of this document has its ren- 
dezvoux at a sample-room. Well, you are to attire 
yourself as a tar, a tough, a tramp — assume any character 
that you can live up to for a few days and nights — and 
become one of its patrons. Become acquainted, make 
yourself known as one of them, learn their aims, their 
interests, what they expect the brotherhood to do for 
them, what they will do for the brotherhood. Are you 
ready to undertake it?” 


98 


DR EXE vs PERPLEXITIES 


99 


"I’ll do my best, Roger," rejoined Hosmer. "And to 
whom shall I report?” 

"To me, for the present." 

"It was the only way," soliloquized Drexel, when he 
had parted from Hosmer and was hastening home. 
"Kenneth Hosmer will come forth cured, and while learn- 
ing his lesson he may be doing real work for me and 
for the society. Poor Ken! I wonder what he will say 
when he knows the truth? But no matter — it’s the only 
way. " 

On the following morning he was prompt to keep his 
appointment with Madeline Payne. But it was Mrs. 
Ralston who came down to him. 

Madeline had been called away quite early, she told 
him; Mrs. Girard had sent for her. Little Phil Vaughan 
had been taken ill in the night and had called for Made- 
line until, by the doctor’s advice, they had sent the car- 
riage for her. He was bordering upon delirium, the note 
had told them. When would Madeline be back? That 
was impossible to tell. They had just received a second 
note from the villa; Phil was growing worse, and for the 
present Madeline would not leave him. She had asked 
Mrs. Ralston to explain all this to Mr. Drexel when he 
came. 

There was no help for it. Once more they must put 
off that interview. He lingered a moment to chat with 
Mrs. Ralston and then took his leave. 

"Perhaps there’s fate in it," mused the detective as 
he drove away. "Perhaps I am growing unnecessarily 
alarmed and concerned in other people’s affairs. Perhaps 
I ought not to confide such grave matters to a woman, 
even if I do know her to be brave and capable. But 
I have put my hand to this thing, and I won’t turn 
back. I must have help, and who can help in this par- 
ticular place save Madeline Payne?" 


100 


MOINA 


For several days Roger found himself too much occu- 
pied to even think of Mr. Lord or Madeline. And so 
day after day wore away. 

As soon as could have been expected, he received the 
reply to his message to Bollossy, the Paris detective who 
was at all times in direct communication with the Rus- 
sian capital through a brother, the youngest of these 
Bollossys, all skillful detectives, and all more or less in 
political favor — one in Paris, one in Vienna, and one, 
the youngest and most reckless, in St. Petersburg. 

The message informed him that Prince Orloff had 
lived at Odessa, and died there some months ago; that 
his wife, a beautiful woman, and the daughter, it is said, 
of a Russian officer high in power, inherits his wealth, 
which is enormous; and that this same Princess Orloff 
was now abroad, traveling for her health or pleasure, 
or both. 

All this was briefly conveyed by Mr. Bollossy of Paris, 
and Drexel was assured that he would find Mr. Bollossy 
of St. Petersburg his to command in case of need. 

Acting upon this hint, he at once put himself in com- 
munication with Mr. Bollossy of St. Petersburg, asking 
of him information as follows; Would Mr. Bollossy fur- 
nish him with a minute description of Madame the Prin- 
cess Orloff? Would he obtain for him a brief and accu- 
rate account of the lady — her life previous to her mar- 
riage, and since; her standing at Moscow and at the 
Russian court? Would he give the name of her father, 
and explain his political attitude? What could he tell 
him of one Madame Petralowski, of Moscow — of her 
family and her past? 

It will be observed that he asked no questions concern- 
ing Basil Petralowski; that he did not so much as name 
him. As he penned the last words, Roger Drexel smiled 
grimly. “Perhaps, after all, Madame la Princess, 1 shall 


DREXEUS PERPLEXITIES 


101 


not be obliged to go to Russia,” he murmured. “Viva 
the three Bollossys!” 

At the end of five days he called upon Princess Orloff, 
and being conducted to her apartments was surprised to 
see a tall and slender old figure half rise from a low 
chair. It was a wan face that looked out from a frame 
of white hair, silvery white, and twined about the small 
and finely formed head coil upon coil. The dark eyes 
must have been dazzlingly beautiful once; they were pa- 
thetically beautiful now. 

The hand that rested upon the arm of her chair, half 
supporting her, was white and slender. “A patrician 
hand,” thought Drexel. 

“This is Monsieur Hurst? " she asked in a low, tremulous 
voice; and then as Drexel bowed, she added, “you are 
expected; ” and settling back in her chair she waved a 
dismissal to the servant. When the man had gone she 
sat for a moment regarding Drexel silently, then she 
arose and took a step toward him. 

“M. Hurst,” she said, with strong traces of agitation 
in her voice and manner, “I have heard much of you 
from my child, Sacha. She believes in you, now; so do I. 
Let me beg of you that you give us your help. My — my 
daughter is so anxious — it is for her sake — ” 

She stopped suddenly. A gorgeous portiere just oppo- 
site her was swept aside, and Sacha Orloff, a vision of 
Oriental loveliness in one of those trailing flowery *con- 
fections' called, the saints only know why, a tea-gown, 
swept into the room. 

“I thought,” she began, with her eyes upon the lady, 
then, “ah, it is M. Hurst. Bon jour. Let me present 
you to my mother, Madame la Princess Orloff.” 

“Madame la Princess” bowed low to “M. Hurst,” and 
coming nearer to the younger princess, murmured a few 
words in Russian dialect which Drexel did not under- 


102 


MOWA 


stand. The eyes of the two women met and then Mad- 
ame la Princess moved toward the portiere. 

"M. Hurst’s business is with you, Sacha,” she said in 
a louder tone. "I will retire.” 

She swept past him with a stately bow, but he could 
see that she walked feebly and that the hand which put 
back the curtain was tremulous. Then Sacha Orloff turned 
again to Drexel. 

“You have decided, M. Hurst?” 

"I have decided to serve you — yes. I will begin this 
quest for your missing friend very soon. To-morrow I 
hope to see you again, to talk with you at length.” 

In the corridor outside, Drexel met a young man, 
handsome, debonair, and softly humming a tune. They 
paused and each glanced quickly and keenly at the other. 

"Superb man! ” was the mental comment of the young 
man as he went his way. 

"Handsome fellow!” thought Drexel, as he passed 
out. "Why, yes, to be sure,” as it all came to him in a 
flash of remembrance, "the fellow I saw at the Socialists’ 
meeting with Miss La Croix. It’s the fellow who took 
Ken Hosmer to the La Croix studio. Is he by any chance 
a friend of Madame la Princess?” 

Then the thought came naturally — was he going to call 
upon her? Probably — why not? Perhaps he lived at 
this same hotel. He was a foreigner also. He walked 
a few paces with slow step and listless manner, but he 
noted every movement of a little man across the street. 
He was not attired in butternut clothes to-day, but wore 
instead garments of that peculiarly dirty hue that is 
neither black nor gray. The man was a notable feature 
on Fifth avenue, but Drexel had seen him, and as he 
sauntered on he muttered: 

"Oh! my friend the spy again. What does he here? 


DREXEVS PERPLEXITIES 


103 


And what, and where, and who is the link between mon- 
sieur the spy and Miss or Mr. or both La Croix?” 

The spy was walking slowly past the great hotel, and 
Drexel lingered long enough to see that at the corner he 
turned and retraced his steps. 

“It is the house he is watching," he mused, stopping 
meanwhile to light a cigar. ‘Fortunate that I had the 
fellow shadowed,” he added, and walked on, smoking, 
and apparently quite the gentleman of leisure. 


CHAPTER XV 


MOINA TURNS BUTTERFLY 

One morning some days after the events last narrated, 
Drexel sent a note to Madeline Payne, asking her if he 
might wait upon her that evening; this message brought 
a prompt affirmative reply. 

It had been arranged that Moina, if she came, would 
come early, and this she did. 

There were no vacant places at the luxurious flower- 
laden table, and when they were seated Moina found 
herself between Mr. Lord and Roger Drexel, the latter 
being her escort. 

When the dessert was at last before them, there was 
a momentary dull after much talking, and Mr. Fallings- 
bee leaned forward and addressed Mr. Lord. 

“Mr. Lord, is it true that a strike is looked for in the 
Ormstock factories?” 

Mr. Lord looked up quickly and knit his brows. 

“If my voice controlled them, Fallingsbee, they might 
strike and welcome. I think iPs high time for a new 
order of things. I heard a man say the other day that 
he’d like to make one of a union of employes who 
wouldn’t have a union man in his service, and I feel like 
saying the same thing.” 

The start and the look of surprise with which Moina 
La, Croix turned toward him was noted by all those near- 
est her. 

“Why, Mr. Lord!” she said, quickly, “do not you be- 
lieve in the working-men’s unions?” 

104 


MOINA TURNS BUTTERFLY 


105 


“I don’t believe in the striking-men’s unions, Miss La 
Croix. They are turning our working-men into rioters 
and loafers. The unions were well enough in their orig- 
inal intentions, but they’re far enough now 'from their 
old standard. If this country is ever ruined it will be 
ruined by the working people! ' 

There was an unusual flush upon Moina’s cheek and a 
fine light in her eyes. 

“Excuse me the discussion, Mr. Lord,” she said, with 
a faint smile; “I have lived much abroad, and have seen 
the oppression of the poor and the indifference of the 
rich, their task-masters. If I were a man, I should be 
a Socialist!” 

A moment of complete silence followed this sentence, 
and then the stern look left the face of their host, and 
a smile appeared in its stead as he bent toward his fair 
guest. 

“Let me thank you for that. If,” he said, with old- 
fashioned gallantry — “if you should announce yourself a 
Socialist unqualifiedly, and should seek to proselyte me, 
I dare say you would hear of my setting fire to my own 
house and letting Mrs. Ralston and Miss Payne here 
starve in the street, while I struck for higher wages.” 

In the midst of the laughter that followed this absurd- 
ity, the dangerous subject was dropped. But as Moina 
turned away her flushing face, she met the intent gaze 
of her escort. Under cover of the laughing comment, 
she said to him half-defiantly and moved by some sud- 
den impulse: 

“Are you horror-stricken at my sentiments, Mr. 
Drexel?” 

He glanced quickly about him before he answered her, 
in a tone quite as guarded as her own: 

“J am delighted, Miss La Croix. There are excellent 


106 


MOIhlA 


reasons why I do not proclaim it from the house-rops, 
but I too am a Socialist! ” 

For a moment their eyes met and then Moina turned 
her face away. 

When the ladies were again in the drawing-room, Mrs. 
Fallingsbee dropped upon a divan beside Mrs. Ralston 
and drew a long sigh of relief. 

“Oh!” she said, in her naturally full todies, “did you 
see me digging Mr. Fallingsbee in the ribs? — yes, actu- 
ally digging. He was going to make an awful blunder 
right on the heels of — ” she checked herself suddenly — 
“of his first one," she added. 

“How is that, Mrs. Fallingsbee?” Mrs. Ralston asked, 
faintly smiling. 

Mrs. Fallingsbee turned upon her suddenly. “Have 
you heard of the Peasley business?” 

“Peasley? No. What — ” 

“I knew it couldn’t have got into the newspapers so 
soon,” Mrs. Fallingsbee hurried on. “You rerhember 
how they burned his factory a year ago nearly?” 

“Yes; Olive wrote about it." 

“Well, next they burned his barn; that was not long 
ago.” 

“Mrs. Fallingsbee,” exclaimed Madeline, “when? We 
did not hear of that.” 

“It can’t have been more than four months ago. Well, 
now they have burned that fine new residence of his, and 
left a letter, threatening additional outrage, pinned to 
his gate-post with a knife.” 

“Poor Mr. Peasley!” sighed Mrs. Ralston; “how they 
pursue that man !” 

“I’m very glad you didn’t let Mr. Fallingsbee fire that 
shot at the table,” said Madeline. 

There was a sudden movement behind Madeline. She 
turned and saw Moina, who had been seated before an 


MOINy4 TURNS BUTTERFLY 


107 


easel of engravings, standing at her elbow. The girl’s 
face was quite colorless now, and Madeline could feel 
how the hand upon her arm trembled. 

“Pardon me; what is the name of this— this unfortu- 
nate gentleman?” 

“Mr. Peasley — Mr. Acton Peasley, ” said Mrs. Fallings 
bee, promptly. “There are so many Peasleys, ” she 
added. 

“Oh!” said Moina faintly; “thank you. I — I don’t know 
this — this Mr. Peasley.” And she turned back to the 
easel. Her eyes were still burning, but Madeline, who 
watched her anxiously from time to time, noted that her 
color did not return. 

The gentlemen did not linger long in the dining-room 
and shortly after their reappearance Moina withdrew 
quietly, declining all offer of aid or escort. A carriage 
would be in waiting, she said; and so it was. And Mad- 
eline, after bidding her a sisterly farewell at the top of 
the stairs, went back to the others in the drawing- 
room. 

When the time for departure came, the guests set out 
almost together, and Mrs. Ralston and Mr. Lord came 
down into the reception-hall with the Fallingsbees and 
Mr. and Mrs. Girard and Dr. Clarence Vaughan. Ashe 
stood by the square table listening to some final remarks 
from Mrs. Fallingsbee, Mr. Lord glanced down and saw 
a little packet which he took up smilingly. 

“1 don’t often do such a thing," he said, as he held 
up the packet, and then he lowered his voice. “The 
day after to-morrow is Miss Payne’s birthday, and as 
I couldn’t get out to-day I sent for — what do you think? 
Ah, there’s some comfort in being an old fellow — eh, 
Vaughan? I can give my sweetheart a ring. ” He tossed 
the packet from one hand to the other. I shall submit 
these samples to — " 


108 


MOIN/t 


Heavens! what a flash! what a hideous, deafening, 
blinding report! What was that smell filling the place 
where already the smoke was stifling them? And what 
a horrible, heart-rending, heart-piercing cry! Then other 
cries, groans, shrieks, and the sound of falling bodies! 


CHAPTER XVI 


AN INFERNAL MACHINE 

Roger Drexel and Madeline had remained behind in 
the rear drawing-room, after bidding their friends good- 
night. They were standing beside the mantel, and as 
yet had hardly spoken, when the explosion without star- 
tled them into instant action. 

Little could be seen; but about the table the smoke 
was thickest, and two or three little tongues of flame 
were already reaching upward from near the floor. 

Drexel’ s thoughts were swift to grasp the situation and 
he at once flung himself upon these flickering flames. 
As he seized a rug and pressed it down with a firm hand 
over the prostrate figure that was the center of this 
smoky horror, Madeline caught at the heav}^ cloth cover- 
ing the table and flung it down where, almost at her 
feet, a vicious blaze sprang up. Then came a quick, 
stern order from Drexel: 

“Put out the lights —quick! ’’ 

With a swift spring Madeline was upon the table and 
the lights above it went out. At the same moment those 
near the door were extinguished. 

“Now let in the air — open the door!” came from 
Drexel, who felt assured that the senseless body beneath 
his hand was that of Mr. Lord. 

“Lord,” he said softly, “are you much hurt?” No an- 
swer; then, “Speak, some one — any one who can!” 

Dr. Vaughan’s voice broke the stillness, sounding 
strange and half smothered: 

109 


no 


MOJNA 


“I --I have not been hurt, only strangled with smoke." 

He began to cough. 

"Don’t stir yet, any of you," now commanded Drexel. 
"Be patient a moment. Fallingsbee, are you hurt?" 

"Only a bit stunned, " came the lawyer’ s answer. "But 
I think my wife — is killed." 

"Oh, heavens! " 

"Hush!" said Drexel sharply. "This is the work of a 
bomb. Doctor — " he paused, seeming to hesitate. 

"I understand, Drexel," said the doctor’s voice; "we 
can’t strike a light yet." 

And so for some moments longer, in fear, in silence, 
in hope, in despair, they waited for the light, while those, 
who could see or think dreaded what its rays might re- 
veal of disaster and doom. 

When at last the paralyzed servant, aided by the doc- 
tor, had lighted the hall once more, what they saw was 
ghastly enough. Nearest the table lay Elias Lord, half 
supported now by Drexel’ s strong arm; hands and face 
were blistered and bleeding, his clothing about the shirt 
and shoulders was burned away, and the fragment of a 
little metal was still clutched in one tense hand. 

Nearest him lay Mrs. Ralston, with a lurid scar across 
the pale cheek that was uppermost, and with the skirts 
of her gauze-like black gown hanging in charred frag- 
ments about her. She was conscious, and after a few 
moments of heroic and nerve-strung silence, began to 
move with pain. 

Mrs. Fallingsbee, quite unconscious, was lying half 
under the table, and her husband, hardly realizing that 
he was smarting with two or three burns upon hands and 
neck, bent over her, chafing her hands and whispering 
her name in frantic appeal. 

Neither Olive nor Philip Girard were hurt, but Olive 
had fainted,^ and Philip, not daring to hope that she had 


INFERNAL MACHINE 


111 


escaped uninjured, was holding her clasped in his arms, 
waiting in breathless suspense for whatever revelation 
the light might bring. 

Impossible to describe such a scene! Impossible to 
picture it! After the first swift survey Dr. Vaughan 
had said: 

“They are all alive, but we must have another doctor 
here at once." 

And Drexel had added: “And every one else must 
be kept out until we have investigated further; " 
then he had hastened to rally the frightened servants; 
and when Olive had recovered from her swoon, 
prompt action took the place of the paralyzed fear that 
had been made doubly awful by the darkness and doubt 
of the first few moments. 

Mrs. Fallingsbee had not been touched by the frag- 
ments of the missile nor the flying bits of burning tow. 
But she had struck her head against the heavy table in 
falling, the fall having been caused by the shock of the 
concussion quite as much as by fright. Her husband 
had been struck by a fragment of the exploded metal and 
burned by the flying tow. 

The tall servant, his hand upon the door opening into 
the vestibule, had been waiting the signal to open it. 
Dr. Vaughan had said good-night to his host and Mrs. 
Ralston, and was standing beside the footman at the 
door. Near him, Girard was helping Olive with her wrap, 
and so these four had escaped almost uninjured. Mrs. 
Ralston had been painfully burned, but had not been hurt 
by the flying fragments of the bomb. And Mr. Lord — 
with him the infernal machine had wrought frightfully. 
It was impossible then to gauge the full extent of his 
injuries. 

In a surprisingly short space of time, coolness, clear 
heads and strong wills had made themselves felt 


112 


MOIN/I 


through all the shock and disaster. Drexel was abl}’ 
seconded by Philip Girard, and while Dr. Vaughan, 
Madeline and Olive gathered about the injured ones, 
those two took all else into their own hands. 

A second physician soon arrived, and then Drexel 
and Philip carried Mrs. Fallingsbee to Madeline’s room, 
and after that, directed by the doctor, went to and fro 
sending the servants for necessary articles, and making 
themselves otherwise useful. 

It was not long before Madeline came to their assist- 
ance, with cheeks pale, but with firm lips, keen, observ- 
ant eyes and quick thoughtfulness that aroused Roger 
Drexel’ s wonder and admiration. 

At the first moment, when there seemed absolutely 
nothing for her hands to do above stairs, Madeline went 
slowly down to the lower floor. Upon the second land- 
ing she paused. Just below stood Drexel. His face 
was in profile, and she noted for the first time how very 
grave and stern that face could be. He was looking 
down into the hall below, and after a moment’s hesita- 
tion, she came swiftly down and stood at his side. 

As she paused, the slight sound made by lier trailing 
draperies caught his ear, and without turning, he put out 
his hand. 

‘No one can go — ’’ he turned and checked his speech; 
"pardon me. Miss Payne, I did not know it was you. 
Were you going down?” 

"What were you about to say, Mr. Drexel?” 

"I have told the servants and others not to cross that 
hall needlessly. It ought to remain just as it is until 
some one can examine it carefully, and alone.” 

She drew a breath of relief. 

"That has been on my mind from the very first," she 
said; "how glad I am that you have seen to this! Mr. 


AN INFERNAL MACHINE 


113 


Drexel, don’t you think that something ougiu ^o be done 
soon?” 

"Yes,” he said, with his eyes upon the disordered 
hall. Suddenly he turned toward her. "Miss Payne, do 
you not think that we have let fate baffle us once too 
often? Is it not time that we took council together?” 

"Now?" she asked. 

"Yes, now, before something worse happens.” 

She put out her hand and caught his own in a firm 
grasp. 

"Mr. Drexel do you mean — is it possible — did you wish 
to talk to me about — did you anticipate anything like 
this?” 

His eyes met hers squarely. 

"Did you?” he asked. 

She met his gaze and was silent. 

"What I wished to say, then,” he continued, "I must 
say now — and more. I must say something about this.” 
He moved toward the room below. "I have done what 
in my judgment seemed best. A servant is stationed 
in the vestibule, to send any who may apply for admis- 
sion to the side entrance. For the present this place will 
not be disturbed; and, before we take further steps, I 
must speak with you alone. Miss Payne.” 

"Let us wait,” she said, "until we hear from Mr. 
Lord. It will not be long now. Dr. Layton has 
locked after Mrs. Fallingsbee, and showed my maid and 
Mrs. Girard what to do. Mr. Fallingsbee’ s hurts have 
been dressed and are not serious. He is with Mr. Gi- 
rard and the two physicians in Mr. Lord’s room.” 

"And Mrs. Ralston?” 

"I have dressed her burns and given her an opiate by 
the doctor’s orders. The housekeeper is with her." 
Some one came in right on the upper landing. "There 
is Mr. Girard," she said. 

Moina — 8 


114 


MOWA 


And then, as he saw them standing below, Philip 
Girard came down. 

‘‘He is still insensible,” he said,, “and they have 
turned us out, Fallingsbee and 1. Vaughan says we need 
expect' no change in his condition for some time yet, and 
Olive is anxious about Phil ; I will run home and come 
back directly. I will bring a nurse with me, who will 
look after Mrs. Fallingsbee.” He paused then and went 
down two or three steps. Then he turned back and spoke 
in a guarded tone: “Vaughan has said enough to explain 
to us the notice of the engine that wrought this mischief. 
Drexel, there’s some work here for a sharp detective." 

“Yes," assented Drexel. And Girard, after viewing 
the hall a moment from the lower stair, turned abruptly 
and went across the drawing-room, and so out by the side 
entrance. 

Then Madeline turned to Drexel. 

“Please go into the library, Mr. Drexel,” she said; 
“that room is sure to remain in solitude. I will go up- 
stairs, and if I am not needed I will come down to you 
at once." 


CHAPTER XVII 


SMILES AND TEARS 

Moina La Croix had been more than usually happy 
on the day of the dinner. When she was arraying herself 
in the flowing silk and soft lace and adjusting the yellow 
roses, she had smiled happily at her reflection in the 
mirror and loved the world for its brightness and her own 
life for the capacity for happiness which it contained. 

“After all, I think papa was right,” she mused; ‘why 
may I not be happy for a year at least. I am so young 
and perhaps, who knows, a long life of suffering, yes, of 
sacrifice may be back of this bright little year that lies 
before me. ” 

When later she sat at the glowing table and looked 
upon the kindly smiling faces about her, she said to 
herself again: 

"If only I had papa here. I shall describe all this for 
him to-night. I’ll try to make him want to come.” 

Then came Mr. Fallingsbee’s unlucky speech, her 
host’s rejoinder, her own hasty words. 

It had all been carried off most adroitly, but the even- 
ing was not the same to her, after that. 

She was glad when J:hey were again in the drawing- 
room, and then she had been startled afresh by Mrs. Fal- 
lingsbee’s words. 

The fine new residence of Acton Peasley burned to the 
ground! Acton Peasley! How the name rang in her ears! 
Her evening was indeed spoiled now. She was glad 
when she could take her leave. She put on her light 

115 


116 


MOWA 


wraps hurriedly and begged Madeline hot to follow her 
to the lower landing. Mrs. Fallingsbee, who had come 
upstairs with them, was still in the drawing-room. Moina 
caught Madeline’s hand, pressed it nervously, and sent 
her back to Mrs. Fallingsbee. Then she ran lightly down- 
stairs, past the tall and slow moving footman and out 
into the vestibule. There she paused for a moment, and 
her hands fluttered about among her wraps and draper- 
ies. Suddenly she turned, went quickly back, without 
so much as addressing the servant, paused just a second 
to drop a fan, a filmy handkerchief, and a long glove, or 
something like it, upon the square table, on a step fur- 
ther, where she stooped to take up a veil which had fallen 
unnoticed as she ran down the stairs, then back again. 
The tall foOtman, looking with surprised eyes at the 
young lady who served herself so lightly and gracefully, 
saw her catch up a handful of things from the table, 
disentangle something, put something down, and then, 
in a moment, he was bowing low as she passed out and 
closed the door behind her. 

“I must tell papa,” she was saying to herself as she 
drove homeward; 'T must tell him to-night before I 
sleep. " 

“Where is monsieur?" she asked of the little maid- 
servant who had followed her fortunes across the seas 
and who met her at the threshold. 

“He is gone out, mademoiselle, with the English gen- 
tleman. ” 

Moina sighed and went past her and up the stairs. 

“Mademoiselle," said the maid coming after her, "I 
think he left you a message in the study." 

“Take my wrappings, Margot," said Moina abruptly. 
And then she locked herself in her father’s study, with 
a stern look upon her face. 

“I’m going to look," she muttered as she turned the 


SMILES AND TEARS 


117 


key. "It’s always that ‘English gentleman’ of late; he 
monopolizes my father. Sometimes I fancy he is chang- 
ing him somehow; that poor papa is growing — differ- 
ent. " 

She flung down the white train that she had caught 
up in one hand, and swept across the room. Then she 
remembered her father’s note and took it from the desk. 

He had forgotten to mention to her a meeting of some 
importance which he must attend. He was feeling so 
much better that she need have no uneasiness about him. 
She must not sit up for him. He would not return 
until late. 

"Poor papa," she said, dropping the note upon her lap. 
"I can see by the lines that he 'was excited and in haste 
— yet he remembers my antipathy and does not name the 
‘English gentleman.’ And then she sat in her father’s 
chair for a long time, thinking, with a serious counte- 
nance. 

"I must know," she said at last; "I have a right to 
know." 

She went over to the cabinet and opened the inner door. 
The cabinet contained a row of shelves well laden with 
various articles, and from among these she took a small 
ebony box, opened it by pressing a spring, and took 
out a bunch of keys. 

Crossing again to her father’s desk, she unlocked it 
quickly, seated herself before it, and took from among 
other similar books, the one she sought. She was famil- 
iar enough with the thin, slim volume. She had been 
her father’s amanuensis so .long that he would have 
been at a loss without her. She was well acquainted in 
a certain superficial way with the statistics and figures, 
the names and data contained in this little manuscript 
library, so much of its contents was in her graceful and 
singularly clear chirography. But familiar as she was 


118 


iviomA 


with much, there was yet much that she did not under- 
stand. 

It had been her habit to unquestioningly copy, and to 
write from dictation. The work had grown mechanical 
to her and almost meaningless. 

At first she turned the pages swiftly, merely glancing 
as they passed under her eye — then slowly, and at last 
very slowly, running her eye down each page before 
passing to the next. A red flush began to burn in her 
cheeks, her hands were beginning to tremble. Once she 
stopped and half closed the book, looking about her 
nervously. Then shutting her lips tightly, she drew a 
long sigh and resolutely turned the next leaf. 

And now very slowly, like a school-girl, with a finger 
upon the topmost line, she began to read down the 
page. 

"Oh,” she catches her breath, and her face grows 
ghastly pale. She puts a hand to her eyes and shudders; 
withdraws it and looks again — "Oh, heaven! ” 

How long does she sit there with the book upon her 
knee? She does not think about the time ; but by and 
by, she rises with a slow mechanical movement, puts away 
the book, locks the desk, replaces the keys in their 
ebony box, and closes the cabinet. There is no color in 
her cheeks now, no light in her eyes. 

Like a somnambulist, she leaves the study, goes to her' 
room, locks herself in, and sinks into the nearest chair. 
Again long moments pass and are not noted. By and by, 
she hears a carriage stop before the door. Her room 
is only lighted by the street-lamp without, and she 
does not stir when she hears low voices outside; more 
than two voices, she would have perceived at any other 
time. The voices came into the house; yes, and up the 
stairs and into the study. But still she sits motionless 
beside her chamber door. 


SMILES AND TEARS 


119 


Presently some one taps there lightly. She hears it. 

She is. within a hand’s reach'of the door ; but she does 
not answer. 

“Mademoiselle! oh, Mademoiselle le Moina!” It is Mar- 
got but she gets no reply. She calls again, and still 
again — she even tries the door very gently. Then she 
goes away, saying to herself: 

“How soundly these happy people sleep.” And then 
she sighs. A little longer, and then doors open and close 
again. The carriage drives away. Then a slow step 
comes down the hall, a tremulous voice calls: 

“Moina, my daughter.” 

Moina puts a shaking hand upon her quivering lips and 
catches her breath. 

The steps recede as slowly as they came. Presently 
all the house is still. Then Moina gets up and goes to 
the window. She looks up and down the brilliant street 
and suddenly tosses up her arms. 

“Oh, my God!” she moans; “is this how it is to end? 
or is it only the beginning? Oh, mother, mother in 
heaven — “ 

She flings herself down beside the window, and bursts 
into a wild tumult of sobbing, tearless passion — of all 
grief the most horrible to endure or to witness — grief 
that rends and wrecks and tortures, while no tears come 
to relieve the awful tension upon heart and brain. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


DETECTIVE HURST 

*T am glad of this opportunity, Mr. Drexel, ” began 
Madeline in the library. 'T don’ t know what it is you may 
have to say to me, but the thing which most nearly con- 
cerns me now is this attack upon Mr. Lord. I want to 
speak of it and of him, if your business — " 

"My business, like yours, concerned and concerns Mr. 
Lord, Miss Payne. Only a part of what I meant to say 
ten days ago — what I ought to have said while I had the 
opportunity —has been horribly anticipated." 

"Do you mean — " she began, and then became silent, 
while she gazed at him with astonished eyes. 

"I meant," he said, "when I sought an interview with 
you, to tell you something that had come to my knowl- 
edge concerning Mr. Lord, and I also meant, if I could 
obtain your promise of secrecy, to confide to 3^ou certain 
matters concerning myself; and last, to ask for your co- 
operation, for a prolonged consultation. We must act.” 

"I want you to help me in this. I want you to find 
and bring me a detective." 

"I came here to-night prepared for this interview,” he 
said; "I am about to commit myself. Have I your prom- 
ise of secrecy?” 

"Yes, if my word is enough.” 

"Your word is enough. Have you happened to hear of 
one, Hurst?” 

"Hurst the detective? indeed I have! But I hardly 
dare hope to secure his help.” 

120 


DETECTIVE HURST 


131 


"You may, for Hurst and Mr. Roger Drexel are one 
and the same. ” 

Madeline was silent for a long moment. When she 
spoke, her words were characteristic. 

"After all I am not so much astonished as I ought to 
be. You have been something of a riddle to me always, 
and this is the solution. I begin to understand,” she said, 
finally. "As a detective you had learned something con- 
cerning Mr. Lord, and you wanted to get further evi- 
dence from me. ” 

"I wanted your co-operation,” he corrected. 

"Mine !” 

"Yours. I will be brief and frank. I had learned 
that Mr. Lord had identified himself with the new league 
of the capitalists, as against the banded Socialists and 
strikers. I knew his out-spoken hatred of those people 
and that he was making himself a marked man because 
of his openly avowed sentiments. I wanted to stand be- 
tween him and harm, if possible, and I wanted a confed- 
erate with me in the camp.” 

"I see,” said Madeline, thoughtfully. 

‘‘Lately,” Drexel went on, "I have feared that already 
Mr. Lord has been set down among the proscribed." 

"And now," she said, "I have a story to tell — a con- 
fidence. " 

"I will regard it as such." 

"Mr. Lord has been warned twice at least,” she said. 

"Ah! Tell me all that you know or guess.” 

In a few swiftly spoken, well-chosen words she told of 
the two anonymous letters, of her interview with Mr. 
Lord and the charge he had given her. 

"Miss Payne,” said Drexel, *T mean to do my utmost 
in this matter; but I have other affairs of importance, 
which I can not, dare not, neglect. In this and in other 
matters, I need just such help as you could give if you 


122 




would. I must have a woman’s help. There is no 
woman who could help me as you can, if you will. One 
of the profession would be useless to me. No one else 
could do what I ask of you. Where Mr. Lord and his 
affairs are concerned we are to be allies, are we not?” 

“Yes,” answered Madeline simply. 

‘T will take you at your word and we will begin in earn- 
est now. Will you be so kind as to call in your servant 
who opened the door to your guests?” 

She went out, and returned a moment later, followed 
by the footman. Harvey, who was an importation and a 
model of his clan, was a man of middle age, with a tall 
figure, an acquired air of dignity which sat upon him 
well, and a face of expressionless calm. He could not 
remember having seen the box that exploded that day. 

'T don’t think any one went near the table until the 
flowers came,” he said, finally. 

"Oh, the flowers?” exclaimed Drexel. 

"Yes, sir. They came late; a big basket of cut flowers, 
and a lot of tiny bunches, sir. He told the boy to put 
’em down on the table so as not to ’andle them much. 
And they was took from there, almost immediately, ^o 
the dining-room.” 

"Can you describe the person who brought the flowers?” 
asked Drexel. 

"It was a boyhabout ’alf-grown, I should say. I didn’t 
notice him particular.” 

"And you can only remember that the boy was ‘half- 
grown?’ Try to recall his appearance, Harvey.” 

Harvey pondered a moment. 

"Well, sir, I can’t say anything habout ’is face — that’s 
a fact ; but yes, he certainly was dressed in light clothes ; 
anyways a light coat. And he wore a ’at that wasn’t 
either very light nor very dark.” 



V I 

“CAN YOU DESCRIBE THE PERSON WHO BROUGHT THE FLOWERS,'* 
ASKED DREXEL.— Moina, p. 122. 




124 


MOIN/f 


“By which you mean that it was not a black hat, I 
suppose?” 

“Yes, sir, it wasn’t black, sure; though I couldn’t just 
name the color it was, nor if it was a wool ’at or 
another.” 

“What else do you recall about this boy; his speech, 
his manner?” 

Harvey drew himself up as if suddenly remembering 
his dignity. 

“Why sir, for ’is speech — it would ’a’ flowed fast enough 
perhaps, hif I ’adn’t hurried ’im up a bit. The flowers 
was a trifle late, and I was quite worried just then, not 
being quite ready to stand at duty. So when the boy 
began to say as he’d brought the flowers aswas ordered, 
hand was sorry habout bein’ late, I broke ’im off short, 
by tellin’ ’im to put down the flowers hon the table. ” 

“Were any of the other servants here — in the hall or 
on the landing?” 

“Not as I know of, sir." 

Drexel was thoughtful a moment, then, “Can you re- 
member what was on the table, Harvey, at the time?” 

“Well, not everything, sir. There’s mostly always 
something, papers, or books, or little parcels, or — ” 

“Were there any papers — newspapers there then?” 

“Yes, sir, I think so.” 

“Were they open or folded? Try to remember, Harvey. ” 

Harvey hesitated a moment. Then he said: 

“I remember, certain, that one of the evenin’ papers was 
part open because I ’ad been lookin’ at it when the bo)' 
rang. There was two or three more papers lyin’ in a 
little pile; an’ Mr. Lord’s ’at an’ gloves were there too. 
It’s a way Mr. Lord ’as, ’a’ layin’ down his ’at.” 

Before Drexel could utter the question next upon his 
lips, a servant came in search of Madeline. Mr. Lord 
had revived enough to speak, and had asked for her. 


DETECTiyE HURST 


135 


“I must go," she said to Drexel. "You will go on 
with this?" 

Drexel bowed and himself held open the door for her. 
If she could have seen his face as he closed it, she 
would have felt assured that her going, at this special 
moment, was, for some reason, quite satisfactory to "Mr. 
Detective Hurst." 


CHAPTER XIX 


A BASKET OF FLOWERS 

“Harvey,” said Drexel when he had resumed his seat, 
“your memory is proving very serviceable. I hope your 
remember who came next — I mean after the boy from 
the florist’s?" 

“It was Miss La Croix, sir." 

There was a slight variation in the manner of the detect- 
ive’s next question, a scarcely perceptible change in his 
face. 

“Don’t misunderstand me, Harvey, if I question you 
about this lady and the other guests. We must know 
just what happened at or about that table. Did Miss 
La Croix approach it?" 

Harvey’s voice took a lower tone. There was a half- 
scared look on his face. “She did, sir," was all he said. 

“Well, and how — what did she do or say?" 

“She asked me very kindly, sir, if she was the first, and 
I said yes; and she swept up the hall, smiling as if some- 
thing pleased her ver}'^ much, and stood by the table and 
put down ’er fan and — and some little things." 

“What little things, Harvey?" 

Drexel’ s tone had changed from grave to stern. Harvey 
had spoken this last sentence slowly, as if weighing his 
words. “I see you were observant where this young lady 
is concerned; what did she put down beside the fan?" 

“Well, sir, she ’ad a long veil in her ’and. One end 
was wrapped about something, a parcel or ma3^be a 
box — " 


156 


A BASKET OF FLOfVERS 


127 


“Wait; which was it now, a box or a parcel?” 

“A box, or shaped like one, sir.” 

“And of what size?” 

“Well, sir. Hi sh’d say habout six or seven inches 
long by 'alf as wide, and as thick as rny two ^ands, sir. 
Has I said, one end of the veil was sort of twisted 
round, more than ’alf hidin’ it, and the other end was 
floating loose-like as she moved.” 

"Now, who went out first when the guests departed?” 

"Miss La Criox was the first, sir.” 

"Did you notice her manner, particularly?” 

For a full moment Harvey was silent. Then some- 
thing in Drexel’s face seemed to stimulate his speech. 

"Miss La Croix, sir, seemed to be in ’aste. She hurried 
down to the vestibule and then missin’ her veil I sup 
pose, she turned, ran back, stopped at the table a moment 
and, I think, put down ’er glove or fan or something, 
and picked up ’er veil from the floor before I noticed 
that she had dropped it, sir.” 

“Was it not your business to notice such a thing and 
to restore it?" 

"Certainly, sir; but she came down the stairs very 
swiftly and the veil must ’a’ fallen as she came. It was 
so near the color of the rug, sir, that I didn’t know why 
she turned back so suddenly, till I saw her take it up.” 

“Then you didn’t see it fall?” 

"No, sir.” 

Some one tapped lightly, and then opened the door. 
It was Madeline. She looked excited and anxious but 
did not speak. . 

"You may go, Harvey,” said Drexel. 

When the man was gone, each waited for the other to 
speak. Finally Madeline asked: "Have you made a begin- 
ning?” 


128 


MOIN/f 


"Perhaps. I hardly know. Are you at my disposal 
now?" 

"For a little while, yes." 

"You have seen Mr. Lord?" 

"Yes. But he is not permitted to talk. I think 
there is something he would like to say, if he could. 
He was anxious to know if anything was being done, 
and he has made a request." 

"Ah! " 

"He wants us, if it is possible, to keep this night* s 
work out of the papers. He wants us to let it pass as an 
accident. Do you think it could be managed?" 

"We will see. Fortunately all are friends here. I 
learn from Harvey, that a little while before your guests 
began to assemble, a boy came to the door with flowers. 
He came, strange to say, to the upper door, and Harvey 
bade him place the flowers upon the table." 

"Oh!" 

"Which he did, retiring at once. Harvey does not de- 
scribe the boy very accurately, and I wish you would see 
if some of the other servants may not have caught a 
glimpse of that same boy. You will know how to do 
this." 

"I will try," she says. And then after a moment’s 
thought, "Yes, I will manage it and without loss of time." 


CHAPTER XX 


CONFIDENCES 

The result of Madeline’s investigations below stairs 
was somewhat startling to both herself and Drexel. 

A few, adroitly-put questions brought out a statement 
from one of the women-servants which directly contra- 
dicted one of Harvey’s 

It concerned the boy from the florist’s. 

The woman had been standing for some moments near 
the servant’s entrance, the upper door of which was of 
glass. She was looking, she said, in behalf of cook, 
who had sent out hastily for something forgotten until 
the last moment, and she was just thinking she would 
run out herself, for cook was in a great bother,” when 
she chanced to see the head of a boy above the railings. 

He was carrying something, and at first she fancied it 
might be cook’s condiments come in the nick of time. 
But a second glance showed her that the boy was loaded 
down with flowers. He halted just opposite her and looked 
up at the house, as if in doubt; then something ahead of 
him, the woman could not see what, seemed to catch his 
eye and he moved forward at a quick pace, and the flight 
of steps hid him from view. 

It was the boy who brought the flowers, the woman 
was sure of that. True, she did not see him ascend the 
front steps, but the flowers were the same, she was certain. 
Ten minutes before she saw this boy, the flowers had 
not arrived; going upstairs, not two minutes after, she 
found the flowers were in the dining-room. But here 

Moina — g 129 


130 


MOmA 


the complication began. The eyes of the woman were 
quick and keen, and she was able to describe the boy. 

“He carried the basket straight in front of him,” she 
said, confidently. “He was a slim little fellow and pale. 
He was dressed in black and wore a tight, little black 
cap on his head.” 

Neither doubts nor questions could shake her confi- 
dence in the evidence of “her own eyes.” She adhered 
to the black clothes and the cap, being confronted with 
the footman only made her the more positive. In spite 
of his affirmation that the boy from the florist’s wore a 
light jacket and “some kind of a ’at,” she clung to the 
evidence of her own two eyes, and to the slim boy, the 
black clothes, and the black cap. 

And here, so far as it concerned Mr. Lord’s servants, 
ended the investigation. 

“How do you account for their widely different descrip- 
tions?” asked Madeline of Drexel. “I confess to some 
annoyance, for I have believed in both Harvey and Mrs. 
Marvin. I don’t know now which one to doubt.” 

“Then doubt neither,” was his response; “this compli- 
cation is a trifling one, compared to those we are likely 
to encounter. In due time I shall investigate at the 
florist’s. In the meantime, it will be well for you to 
keep an eye on both Harvey and the woman.” 

To keep the truth concerning the explosion and its 
results out of the newspapers looked at first like a diffi- 
cult undertaking. Nevertheless, it was accomplished. 

The seravnts were taken in hand by Drexel and 
Madeline. Some of them had not been long in the 
house, but all had been well treated and were becoming 
more or less attached to the inmates. Drexel could be 
imperative upon occasions, and Madeline was very liberal, 
while asking their silence as a favor. With the excep- 
tion of Harvey, who had been dispatched for an assist- 


CONFIDENCES 


131 


ant by Dr. Vaughan, none of them had been out of the 
house. Madeline and Drexel felt quite sure that, as far 
as the servants were concerned, there was little to be 
feared. 

In the early morning Dr. Vaughan, Mr. Fallingsbee, 
Philip Girard, and Roger Drexel took counsel to- 
gether. 

Mrs. Fallingsbee was suffering from the blow upon 
her head, and would for some days. But it was not a 
dangerous hurt, and it would be quite safe to remove 
her to her own home that afternoon. 

Mr. Fallingsbee’ s left hand was swathed in bandages, 
and he had an ugly scar upon his neck. But he made 
light of these evidently painful souvenirs of Mr. Lord’s 
little dinner, and pronounced himself quite able to baffle 
inquiry and account satisfactorily for his injuries. 

Mrs. Ralston had not escaped so easily. A bit of fly- 
ing tow had ignited her soft garments, and one limb had 
been severely blistered, while her hands in catching at 
her burning draperies had also been wofully scorched. It 
would be many days before she could use them again. 
It was decided that she should be removed to the home of 
the Girards, lest the fact that there were two patients 
in the house, should give rise to undesirable inquiries. 
And -for two weeks, those who asked for Mrs. Ralston 
at Mr. Lord’s door were informed by the obliging 
Harvey that Mrs. Ralston was absent and not likely to 
return for a week or more. 

As for Mr. Lord, he lay in his darkened room, swathed 
in cotton and bandages, beyond recognition. There were 
wounds and burns upon chest and shoulders, hands, face 
and neck; some serious and almost frightful. 

There was good hope of his recovery, and possible 
danger from fever, inflammation, gangrene. But should 


m 


MOIhlA 


he live to be a centenarian, he would be a man of many 
scars, to the end of his days. 

He was not permitted to talk — rather, he would not 
have been, had he made the attempt. But, be- 
tween his wounds and his bandages, talking was both 
painful and difficult, and he did not readily recover from 
the dazed mental condition brought about by the shock 
of the explosion. Added to this, was the weakness from 
pain and loss of blood. He had made one effort, with 
some vague ideas of what he should say to Madeline. 
But she had anticipated him, by whispering that already 
she had taken stepi§ to get the matter in the hands of a 
detective. And when she begged him to leave everything 
to her and not to exert himself, he was only too glad to 
close his swollen eyelids, and whispering his wish to 
keep the affair out of the newspapers, subside into si- 
lence and narcotized rest. 


At three o’clock in the afternoon of the next day, 
Madeline aand Drexel were seated together in the par- 
tially darkened library, talking in low tones. They had 
been thus occupied for a long hour, and Madeline’s face 
was still alive with the mixed emotions roused b}^ the 
interview, during which she had been, for the most part, 
a listener. 

"And now," he was saying as if concluding some 
narrative, "I think you know everything. At least I 
think that we understand each other." 

"If we do not," said Madeline, gravely, "it shall not 
be my fault. You have given me much to think of, Mr. 
Drexel. It is a grave responsibility to be put in pos- 
session of secrets such as these, but do not fear that I 
regret the responsibility thrust upon me. If I were a 
man, I hope I should have done what you have done. 1 


CONFIDENCES 


133 


am afraid you overrate my ability. But, such as it is, 
you may count upon it." 

"Thank you;” he rose and put out his hand. "I could 
ask nothing more. And now that everything is under 
stood, 1 will set my agents at work." He turned to go. 

"One moment.” She was standing close beside him. 
"Do not misunderstand me. I see the reason, the 
necessity for all you have done and propose to do, but I 
have not given up my faith in her. I hope and expect 
to see her vindicated." 

"You are a friend, indeed," he replied. "Believe me 
I will work for her vindication. Do you not see that 
the very course we have adopted will lead to her vindica- 
tion? if she is innocent it's the only way, in fact.” 

"Yes, I see that. And I have already written her, as 
you suggested. Oh, do not fear for me. Having made 
up my mind, I can play my part.” 

"If I had ever doubted that,” he said, "we would not 
be in council now.” 


V 


CHAPTER XXI 
moina’s struggle 

Moina La Croix could hardly have told just how she 
passed that long night, after she had heard the foot- 
steps, first of her maid and then of her father, turn from 
her door and die away in the stillness below. It was a 
night of bitter grieving, of rebellious sobs and tears, and 
of little calm thinking. At last, when the "small hours" 
were growing large again, as measured by the strokes 
of a great clock not far away, nature and youth con- 
quered, and she fell asleep. When she awoke the sun 
shone broadly in at her windows, and the sounds of 
active life came loudly up from the street. 

It seemed to her that the Moina of yesterday and the 
Moina of now are a life-time apart. Yesterday she was 
serious, busy, yes, anxious about a silken gown! To-day, 
her heart is like lead in her bosom ; silken gowns are 
as naught. What has wrought this swift change? 

Ah, Moina La Croix, yours is not the first soul to be 
shocked to despair, and to rebel at being suddenly forced 
from your charming, mystical, far-off view of the ideal, 
and set face to face with the real, the near, and the 
now. 

Suddenly she sprang up and began a hasty toilet. 
She could not move fast enough, and she did not want 
Margot. Her eyes were hurried. Her cheeks flushed. 
How plain it all seemed to her now. Her father was 
not a plotter. He was an evangelist. It was not he 
who had planned these horrible things — this burning of 

134 


MOIN/i'S STRUGGLE 


135 


property, this terrorism. It was that wretch Crashaw. 
Her father was innocent of it all; innocent and igno- 
rant. And last night she would not see him, that dear, 
high-minded, clear-souled papa! Last night she had 
presumed to sit in judgment upon him — she! 

But she would see him now; and it could not be quite 
enough! She paused with one slim slipper half on. 
What would she say to him? Would she dare speak of 
Crashaw, question him, warn him? Just then a shrill 
voice beneath her window caused her to start and let 
the little slipper fall, unheeded. 

"Mornin’ papers — all about the big strike! Soldiers 
called out! Big meetin’ — of so-cial-ists!" The voice 
ended in an ear-splitting, upward tone. Another newsboy 
would have understood that the shrieker had been hailed 
by a customer. 

Moina flew to the window. It was Margot, upon the 
doorstep, who had beckoned the boy toward her. She 
was holding out her hand for a paper. 

"Margot," called down Moina, "get all of them, one 
of each." 

Margot nodded and Moina withdrew from the window. 
A new thought had seized upon her mind, driving out 
all else. She would know for herself. She would read 
the papers. She would study the question of socialism 
in its American aspect. And she would not yet speak to 
her father about those lists of names, where, against 
some of them, a blue cross stood penciled. Yes, she 
would know; and however she might seem to doubt Cra- 
shaw, yes and the brotherhood itself, she would not 
doubt her father. 

"It’s his religion," she murmured as she prepared to 
leave her chamber — "it’s his religion, and he lives up to 
it, not down." 


CHAPTER XXII 


HIS THREE WARNINGS 

For four days, Mr. Lord lay secluded from all save 
the doctors and nurse. On the fourth day he began to 
fret under the restraint put upon him, and on the morn- 
ing of the fifth, some of the confining bandages were 
removed and their replacement pronounced unnecessary. 

"Look here," said the patient to Dr. Vaughan, "I 
want to see Miss Payne. Prop me up somehow and 
give me something to ease or numb this smarting. If I 
can talk with her for twenty minutes, Pll get something 
off my mind that won't let me rest, and then you can 
have your chance." 

Madeline, informed of this, repaired to the library, 
where, seated at Mr. Lord’s desk, she wrote the follow- 
ing message to Roger Drexel: 

"Mr. Lord is to receive me to-day, in two hours or less. 
If possible come before that time." 

Drexel was prompt to answer her summons, coming 
up the steps just as Dr. Vaughan, having completed his 
task and administered the soothing draught, was coming 
down. The two men stopped, shook hands and ex- 
changed inquiries. 

"How is the patient?" 

"Better, I think, but inclined to fret. I have con- 
sented to his talking with Miss Payne a little. He 
seemed to make a point of it. But he sees no other 
visitors." 

Drexel smiled. 


136 


HIS THREE IVHRNINGS 


137 


"Is that meant for me?" he asked. 

"Was it needed?” The doctor’s answering smile was 
somewhat constrained. 

"Well, not greatly. My visit is to Miss Payne.” 

For an instant the eyes of the two men met smil- 
ingly. Then as each went his way, Drexel’s became 
grave and absorbed, while those of Clarence Vaughan 
wore a look of pain. 

Madeline, standing at a drawing-room window, saw 
the meeting and the parting of the two, unseen by 
either; and she saw, too, the face of each as they turned 
away. 

"Can anything have come between them?” she thought. 
"Oh, I hope not.” And then she sighed. 


When Madeline appeared at his bedside, Mr. Lord 
made an effort to smile through his bandages, and to put 
out a burned and poulticed hand. 

I want to tell you something, ” he began huskily, "but 
first, have you done anything?” 

"Yes; Mr. Hurst, the detective, is already hard at 
work upon the case.” 

Mr. Lord was silent for some moments, then he asked: 

"Have you seen him?” 

Madeline started. "Seen Mr. Hurst, do you mean? 
Mr. Drexel has kindly acted for me; it has been made 
very easy for me between them.” 

"What do you think of him?” persisted the sick man, 
seeming not to have noticed her evasion. 

"I think he will solve our mystery, if the solution is 
possible. Mr. Lord, I wish you would let me call Mr. 
Drexel. He is in the library. He will tell you what 
has been done so much better than I can. And he com- 
municates direct with Mr. Hurst. Of course it wouldn’t 
do for a detective to be seen coming here. Mr. Hurst 


138 


MOINA 


thinks it likely that your house is being watched con- 
stantly. 

“Yes, I dare say.” Mr. Lord seemed little affected by 
this supposition. “Call Drexel, then." 

When the two were seated beside his bed and very 
near it, he said, with his eyes on the latest comer: 

“The doctor won’t let me talk more than I can help. 
Drexel, you must know that I appreciate your interest in 
myself and my adventures. I suppose you have been 
told — " 

“I have told him about those letters, if you mean that," 
broke in Madeline. “I thought it was necessary." 

Drexel, in quick, graphic sentences, told of the dis- 
coveries concerning the florist’s messenger and the dif- 
ference in the testimony of the footman, Harvey, and the 
woman, Mrs. Marvin. 

“Upon visiting the florist," Drexel said, “it happens 
unfortunately that, on the day in* question, they were 
more than usually crowded with orders for dinner flow- 
ers, and in the hurry of getting out belated ones, things 
got somewhat tangled. As a result, no one remembers 
what particular messenger was sent here, and what seems 
a trifle strange, none of the boys themselves, when called 
up and questioned, will acknowledge being the messen- 
ger. " 

“And what has our detective done about all this?" 
demanded Mr. Lord. 

“He has opened an investigation in his own way 
among the florist’s delivery boys. He has set a watch 
upon both Mrs. Marvin and Harvey. Other men are em- 
ployed in looking up the past of each of these two. In 
fact, all your servants, who by the way seem honest and 
respectable above the average, are under surveillance." 

“Now, Miss Payne," said Mr. Lord, “please unlock 


HIS THREE IVARNIHGS 


139 


the safe there beside the fire-place; there’s a long, narrow 
rosewood box there, bring that." 

All were silent while Madeline unlocked the safe and 
brought the rosewood box to the bedside. "Open it, 
Drexel." 

Drexel took the box from Madeline’s hand, and pressed 
upon the light spring that fastened it. 

"Take them out," whispered Mr. Lord. "Look at them, 
all of you." 

Drexel took out first a wrinkled letter, which he put 
into Madeline’s hand, and next, a long, slender, keen- 
edged dagger. 

"That dagger," said Mr. Lord, "I found pinning the 
letter there to the head of my bed. It was placed there 
while I lay under it asleep, more than seven months ago. 
You see, don’t you, I have had my three warnings." 
His eyes met those of Madeline, and in them he plainly 
read a question and answered it as if it had been spoken. 
"You wonder why I told you the rest, showed you the 
others, and kept this from you. It was wrong; I see it 
now. I thought these later warnings were from some 
of my factory people. I did not connect the two until 
now, and I meant to keep this always from every one." 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE "DAGGER' IN THE WOOD" 

And then rapidly, and in as few words as was possible, 
he told them the story of that nig^ht. 

"The man was tall and muscular," he said in conclu- 
sion. "His voice was a good, firm bass, not harsh nor 
unpleasant. I think he was not so rough and uncouth of 
speech as he would have had me believe. He made sev- 
eral slips into better language than he meant to use. 
They’ve been watching me all along; there’s no doubt 
of it. " 

Vaughan and Drexel both arose as if b}^ one impulse. 

"This is very important," said the latter, "but you 
have talked quite enough. Good-bye for the present, 
Mr. Lord." He nodded toward the doctor and turned 
to leave the room. 

Madeline bent over the couch and murmured in the 
sick man’s ear, "Shall I go?" He nodded an assent, and 
she bent her head as she passed Dr. Vaughan, and fol- 
lowed Drexel. 

"Now," she said, turning upon Drexel as soon as the 
door had closed behind them, "what is it?" 

"It is this: Mr. Lord has been tried, found guilty, 
condemned." 

"Tried! By whom, and for what?" 

"Tried by the most powerful secret society on the face 
of the globe ! Condemned because, after being warned, 
Mr. Lord has chosen to let the warning pass unheeded. 
Until now I thought it might not be the worst — that Mr. 

140 


THE ^^DAGGER IN THE IVOOD' 


141 


Lord had incurred the displeasure of some local order, 
or perhaps a group of his own employes. I even fan- 
cied that their missile had done more damage than was 
intended — that it was not meant to kill. But now — ” 

"Now — and what now?” 

"Now I am able to recognize our enemies, and it is 
my duty to tell you that they are dangerous and power- 
ful. Heavens! 1 wish I had not drawn you into this!" 

"You draw me into it ! Mr. Drexel, you forget. But 
for you I would be fighting in the dark and with insuffi- 
cient weapons, while now I have the help of Mr. Hurst, 
and I know what that is worth.” 

"Nevertheless you would be safer without it. Miss 
Payne. I wish you would withdraw from this matter al- 
together. Leave it to me." 

And why? Have you discovered that I can be of no 
use to you? A clog, perhaps?” 

"No; that is folly. It is of your safety I am thinking. 
Upon the slightest suspicion that you and I are engaged 
in thwarting their plans, we shall be surjounded with 
spies. Should it become known that Drexel and Hurst 
are one, you, as the friend of Drexel, are in danger. They 
would treat you ruthlessly. Nothing that they can de- 
stroy or overthrow will be permitted to stand in their 
way. Of course Mr. Lord must not know this yet. And 
he need not know that you are acting with me. Leave 
it to me and you will be safe enough." 

Madeline drew herself up grandly erect and haughty. 

"Mr. Drexel, if you were to withdraw — and if there is 
any such thing, you are the one to withdraw— I would 
still hold to my purpose. But it seems incredible. We 
are not in Russia.” 

"No, we are not in Russia. We are in a land so broad 
and free that it welcomes to its shores every assassin, 
political offender, and escaped convict. We are inAmer- 


142 


MOIN/i 


ica, bestowing the gift of free speech and the liberty 
of the press upon men so dangerous that even Russia, 
with all her police, her jails, her spies, and her Siberia, 
will not, dare not, keep them at large within her border. 
These are the men who, within a few years, have turned 
our before harmless leagues and unions into festering 
sores; who are making socialism, once little more than 
another name for republicanism, a curse and a huge 
menace to the peace and welfare of our nation. But, 
pardon me. Miss Payne; I am haranguing you. I con- 
fess that I have been startled. I wish you were out of 
this house. " 

"Where would you advise me to go, Mr. Drexel?" 

He caught the gleam of her eye and the ring of sar- 
casm in her voice. But he was quite beyond sarcasm, 
outside of the conventional pale. 

"If I had dreamed that Mr. Lord’ s enemies were what 
they are, I would never have permitted you to take one 
step with me. I would have prevented you from having 
any part in or knowledge of these things, at any cost." 

"Really? You must consider yourself all-powerful! 
Even for Mr. Hurst that might have been difficult.” 

"Mr. Hurst is accustomed to difficulties, ” he said grim 
ly. "But we are wasting words.” 

"Precisely my opinion. I can understand now why Mr. 
Lord trusted me with such an important secret. At 
first, I confess it seemed to me a little strange. It is 
this dagger and nocturnal visit that has been upon his 
mind, rather than the anonymous letters.” 

"I believe you are right.” 

"If he made the fact of this visit known, it might 
weaken this new society, might intimidate some. So he 
intended to keep this visit a secret altogether. I think, 
too, that it may have a stronger impression upon him 
than he would be willing to admit." 


THE ^^DAGGER IN THE IVOOD 


143 


"Quite natural, thatv” 

"Now, when that first anonymous letter came, he began 
to see a probability of danger. Note the character of 
the man ; he is facing the danger doggedl)^ — has been 
from the first. But by and by the thought comes to 
him, 'If they should kill me in some secret way and I 
have held my tongue to the last, the rascals will go 
free,’ and that thought would decide him." 

"Upon my word, I believe you are right in every par- 
ticular," Drexel broke in. 

"Thanks. Then he casts about for a confidante. Mrs. 
Ralston won’t do; she has nerves. There remains my- 
self. It was Hobson’s choice, you see. But even so, he 
did choose me and I accepted his confidence, and now 
I am more than ever eager to take an active part. Don’t 
talk to me about danger. Since the danger has increas- 
ed, let my work increase. I withdraw all restrictions. 
Consider me a female detective, thirsting for honor and 
glory in my profession. Don’t make me merely a repos- 
itory of secrets, a go-between. Let me help; let me 
work!" 

And so this pair, two arrayed against an unknown 
quantity, ratified anew their compact, and then and there 
began to arrange their plans for the defense of the help- 
less man above-stairs. 

"One question," said Madeline, as he was about to 
go; "I think everything else is clear to me. Are you 
quite certain that dagger and accompaniments may not 
have been placed there by some power other than that you 
believe to be so dangerous. May it not — " - 

"I understand," he broke in; "but don’t indulge in a 
hope of that sort. It is the dagger used by the most 
dangerous order in the universe. It is almost a death- 
warrant. I have reason to know that dagger." 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A CRYPTOGRAM 

"My Dear Vaughan: Does the sign of these hiero- 
glyphics take you back a few years when we undertook 
to unravel the secret cipher invented and used by *Slip- 
pery Joe Dilkes’ and his pals — that quartette of evil-do- 
ers, now happily extinct? When you and I mastered the 
secret of the cipher, we wondered, jestingly, if we should 
ever have need to communicate with each other by means 
of it. Now, here am I obliged, yes obliged, to address 
to you, in this self-same cipher, words that I dare not 
commit to plain English upon paper. If this is placed 
in your hands by the bravest, best, and most wonderful 
woman in the world, you will read it and then you will 
destroy it — cipher as it is. 

"When I went abroad a few years ago, you wondered, 
with many other good friends, at my long sojourn in for- 
eign lands. How could you know, from such random let- 
ters as 1 saw fit to send to my friends in those days, 
that I had found, or thought I had, an 'object,^ absorb- 
ing, fascinating. ‘Grand and noble’, I called it then, 
and believed myself allied to the greatest cause that 
man ever lived or died for, and associated with men 
whose names would sooner or later be written ‘high up 
on the roll of honor and fame.’ 

"Beginning in France and ending in Italy, I became 
a convert to a new plan of evangelization — not all in a 
moment. I had my American ideas and some strongly 
rooted prejudices against organized secret societies, ex- 

144 


A CRYPTOGRAM 


145 


cept such as have their foundations in the moral or so- 
cial virelfare of the associated — i. e.y of our clubs and 
lodges — ‘milk and water/ I soon learned to call them. 

“Little by little I began to realize how all Europe is 
honey-combed with secret societies; how these, begun 
separately, had gradually grown toward each other, joined 
hands, and united issues, until they were growing a 
power beyond belief. The first step is simple, practical, 
with nothing to shock the prejudices, everything to 
arouse the sympathies of chivalric natures. The onward 
march is fascinating. For more than two years I was 
held, bound by the spell. 

“I will tell you how the change was wrought. I had 
gone on from grade to grade, and there are many, and 
had been introduced to some choice spirits who dwell 
near the innermost shrine. I was devoured with curiosity, 
eager to rise, eager to learn. I was picked out to do a 
certain work, and in doing it I had to see too much, to 
learn something of how this great complicated machine 
was kept oiled and perfectly running. I cannot think of 
that time without a shudder. I had gone so far, there 
was no going back. I had learned so much that, not 
for the sake of the society, but for my own sake, for the 
sake of humanity, I must know more. I did learn more. 

I reached admittance into circles not far below the high- 
est. At first, I confess, I hardly thought beyond the de- 
termination to know the full power for good and evil that 
rested in that inner circle. In the early days of my 
enthusiasm, I had made one or two converts. For these 
I felt responsible. I felt as if I could never let them 
out of my sight, and now for such information as she 
can give, I refer you to Miss Payne. She knows that 
for some time I have been occupied in studying the 
movements of that ever-increasing body of men, revolu- 
tionists all, who call themselves socialists, anarchists, 


146 


MOINA 


leaguers — a variety of names, all meaning the same in 
kind, with an admitted difference in degree. This differ- 
ence will be of little importance when the great out- 
break comes, if it is permitted to come. And here let 
me tell you what I know of these people. 

“First: They are far stronger, immeasurably, than is 
generally supposed, and they are growing stronger daily. 
Their ranks are swelled considerably by our disaffected 
home laborers, and more disaffected home idlers, and 
immensely by the constant influx of foreign fire-eaters, 
who have acted their great specialty once too often at 
home. Sooner or later these miscreants will make their 
influence and their power felt, unless we are prompt to 
act. 

“Second: There has been for some time a movement 
on foot to draw together the various societies of laborers, 
mechanics, etc., to bind them by a common interest, so 
that all may act in concert. This movement is a suc- 
cess, as our government may learn to its cost, if the 
amalgamating process is allowed to continue too long. 

“Third: The majority of these people are, many of 
them, well-meaning but misled, and, inmost cases, unin- 
formed; they are not aware that they form what is known 
to those above them as the outer circle; this outer cir- 
cle is little informed as to the objects and methods of 
their leaders. The chief officers of this outer circle are, 
for the most part, members, not officers, of the second 
circle. And above them are other grades. 

“Fourth: The brains, the hands that move the ma- 
chinery, are not known to the lower circles, but here in 
New York, now, to-day, are agents and agencies sent 
from Europe; not beggarly, mouthing orators lodging in 
tenements, but men of brains, experience, ability, revo- 
lutionists, high-salaried, caring indeed nothing for 
money, drawing as they do upon a purse filled by a 


A CRYPTOGRAM 


147 


dozen nations. These upper circles are each composed, 
for the most part, of four or five members. The upper 
grades decide what blows shall be struck, and where, 
and when, and how. They are laying out an organized 
campaign against capital. They condemn factories, 
bring about strikes.' They have their black-lists. Now, 
as to Mr. Lord’s danger from this society. I did not 
tell Madeline quite the whole truth concerning that dag- 
ger. It was not a threat nor a warning. It was a death- 
warrant. He is a doomed man. I have known many in- 
stances, since I entered the upper circles, where that 
death-warrant was issued in Europe — it is new here in 
America — and I never knew one to fail or be withdrawn. 
It is my present mission to save him if possible; not 
him alone, but others. To do this there is but oneway: 
To wipe out entirely this select circle on this side of 
the waters, for without the head the hands are not to 
be feared. It is my purpose to drive out of the country, 
or out of the world, a quartette, more or less, of men 
who sit behind the scenes and plot destruction, using as 
tools the needs of some, the greed of others — all the 
worst and strongest attributes of men ; but not depend- 
ing upon these alone, when a man like Elias Lord has 
been condemned. 

"Old friend, I go upon a dangerous mission. I have 
set my home in order. But I hope to come back — not, 
however, until I have undone the wrong done myself and 
my country in an hour of rash, ill-directed enthusiasm. 
When you have read these pages and heard what Miss 
Payne may then have to tell, it will remain for you to 
act — at your own discretion. I say no more. " 


CHAPTER XXV 


MISSING 

When Roger Drexel took the foregoing letter to Mad- 
eline and put it into her hands, he said: 

“It is for Dr. Vaughan, and you will please take 
charge of it. It is written in a cipher which is known 
to him, for it contains information that I would not ask 
you to keep in your possession in ordinary writing. As 
it is, you are safe enough. It may be that I shall have 
to go away at any moment, to be abroad for some time; 
but if all goes well, I shall let you hear from me, by 
some means, at stated intervals. Should you ever fail 
to hear from me for a month, you may give this letter 
to Dr. Vaughan and tell him everything. But I trust 
and expect that you will hear from me frequently. Now 
let me tell you what I may of my plans.” 

He was preparing for a grave and difficult undertak- 
ing, and he was plunging into his maze with a clue so 
slight, upon evidence and suggestions so complicated and 
contradictory, that he felt, and was, more than justified 
in his precautionary measures. 


It was on the morning of the third day after the ex- 
plosion in Mr. Lord’s reception-hall, that he put the 
letter into Miss Payne’s hands. He had called at an 
early hour, and by appointment. A quarter of an hour 
later he entered the show-room of a fashionable florist, 
made his way to the rear through aisles of bloom and 

148 


MISSING 


149 


fragrance, and was welcomed by the sole occupant of a 
tiny office which overlooked everything from an elevation 
three steps above the floor. 

"Ah, Mr. Hurst, good morning, sir," closing a ledger 
hastily and drawing forward a chair. The man was rapid 
and direct. While Drexel was seating himself, he asked 
quickly: 

"Anything new, sir?" 

"No. How is it with you?" 

"I think 1 have found your boy. He reddened when I 
spoke of the business, and stammered and could remem- 
ber very little about that ’particular day. Would you 
like to see him?” 

"Yes." 

The florist touched a silvered knob at the side of his 
desk. In a moment a head appeared at the office door. 

"Send the boy Frank Price tome.” The head bobbed 
and vanished. 

"Frank Price is not here, sir." 

"Not here?" 

"No, sir. He has not been here this morning." 

"Has he sent any word?" 

"No, sir; the boys were talking about him when I went 
to call him. They" — he looked first at his master and 
then at the stranger and hesitated. 

"Well, what is it?" asked the florist; "come in Mike, 
and close that door. Never mind this gentleman. What 
were you about to say?" 

Mike, a freckled-faced, half-grown boy, came sliding 
in and pulled the door shut behind him. 

"Excuse me, sir," he began hastily, "but you was ask- 
in^ the boys who took the flowers to — to that place — ” 

"Yes, I know; go on, Mike." 

"Well, sir, I heard them talkin’ among themselves, 
and it seems that Billy Jarvis was almost sure it was 


MOINA 


Frank that took the flowers, and afterward he told 
him so. Frank wouldn't say anything right out, but kind 
of argued. They were fussin' about it after they got out 
last night, and they’ve been talkin’ it over again this 
mornin’ . ” 

"You may go, Mike." 

When the door closed behind Mike, Drexel put down 
his paper. "Have you anything to suggest?" asked the 
florist. 

"Yes; will you question this boy Jarvis and find out 
what is known about the affair, about this Frank and 
where he lives?" 

Billy Jarvis was a tall, slim boy with a wide-awake 
air and a "knowing” face. He presented himself with- 
out hesitation or awkwardness, cap in hand, and stood 
expectantly before his employer, smiling and serene. 

The florist was a man of direct methods. His first 
words sent the smile from Billy’s face. 

"Boy, do you know that I’ve half a mind to discharge 
you?” 

"I, sir?” Billy’s mouth opened and closed as if speech 
had forsaken him. 

"Yes; when I asked you yesterday morning a second 
time if you knew anything about the basket of roses and 
lilies, what did you tell me?” 

‘‘Nothing, sir.” Billy began to pull himself together, 
but at the mention of the basket he flushed and paled 
again through his freckles. 

"Nothing?” 

"Oh — I may have said that I didn’t take the basket 
and didn’t know who did.” 

"Didn’t know? Now, young man, don’t waste anymore 
words. Out with it. Why did you accuse Frank Price, 
or hint that it was he who took that basket?” 

"I — I don’t like to tell on the other boys, sir." 



“BOY, DO YOU KNOW, I HAVE HALF A MIND TO DISCHARGE YOU?” 
’ — Moina, p. 150. 




152 


M0INj4 


"Oh, you don’t like to be a tale-bearer. That’s well. 
But circumstances alter cases. It will be to Frank’s in- 
terest that we — that I know the truth. Did Frank de- 
liver that basket of roses and lilies?" 

"I — I am not sure, sir. I really am not." 

"Think. It was a center-piece, a large one, made for 
a dinner table. Come now." The tone of the florist 
had grown milder. It was almost coaxing. The boy 
seemed to renew his courage. He looked up, straightened 
his shoulders, and came a step nearer his employer. 

"ITl tell you just how it was, sir. I was sent out 
with some bouquets for the theater, they said. I overtook 
Frank carrying a basket. I think it was the lilies and 
roses. I thought, as I came up, that he was talking with 
some one, but there was such a crowd I could not be sure. 
Anyhow, by the time I came up with him he was alone, 
and we went on together for two blocks. Then I turned 
and we went opposite ways almost." 

"Do you remember the time?" 

"No, sir; but it was late, for when I got back all the 
others were gone except Frank, and he came running in. 
He seemed in a great hurry, and provoked too. I re- 
member what he said." 

"What did he say?" 

"He said, ‘There — one is always late when one don’t 
want to be.’" 

"Did you go away together?" 

"I tried to keep up with him for a little way, but he 
hurried so. We used often to walk to Merriell street 
together. I live on Merriell street, and used to leave 
him there. But that night, before we had gone half a 
block, as I was puffing along to keep up with him, he 
said, 'You needn’t hurry because I do.’ 'What makes 
you in such a hurry?’ says I. 'I’m hungry,’ he says, 
'and I’m going to have an extra big supper. I’ve got 


MISSING 


153 


to go on/ With that he begins to run, and I didn’t try 
to keep up with him any more. I noticed one thing, 
though." 

"What was that?" 

"He turned the very next corner, and I thought that 
was queer, for, if he was so hungry, that was not going 
Jiome. I suppose he went somewhere else to supper." 

"Probably," smiled the florist, who was growing inter- 
ested in the investigation. "Do you know where Frank 
lives?" 

"Yes, sir. At least I know it’s on Krupp street, at a 
corner, in a big tenement." 

"Now, tell me why you didn’t tell me this when I made 
my first inquiry?" 

"Because I thought, of course, Frank would speak right 
up, and when he didn’t — I hated to be mean, sir, and he 
looked at me as much as to say ‘Don’t tell.’ 

The gentleman in the corner laid down his newspaper 
and made a movement as if to rise. 

"Mr. Hurst, Pm quite at your service," cried the 
florist. T did not expect to be so long over this little 
matter. Billy, you may go. And I think it would be 
well, as you seem a friend of his, to drop in and see if 
Frank may not be sick. " 

T want some one from your establishment to go to the 
home of this boy, Frank Price — not our friend Billy, who 
might gossip perhaps,” said Drexel, when the boy was 
gone. 

"I think Mike would do. He is very faithful and not 
too talkative. Besides he does not know that I am 
making any special inquiry. What instructions shall I 
give him?" 

"Merely to look up the boy and report to you." 

It was nearing noon when Drexel left the florist’s and 


154 


MQlN/i 


at half past two he received the following note from 
the florist: 

"Mike has just returned. He found the mother of 
Frank Price on the top floor of the big tenement on the 
southeast corner of Krupp and Martin streets. She was 
almost distracted over the absence of Frank, who has 
not been home, she says, since yesterday morning." 

"A prompt man, a most upright man," commented 
Drexel upon reading this letter. "But, lest he should 
fail to find Master Frank Price, I too will begin an in- 
vestigation. " 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE DETECTIVE CAMERA 

At three o’clock, half an hour after reading the 
florist’s letter, Drexel presented himself before his 
friend, the chief of police. 

“Captain, will you lend me another man?” he asked. 
“A boy has been missing from his home since yesterday, 
or is said to be missing. His mother is a poor sewing- 
woman. I have reason to think there’s a crook some- 
where. It may even turn out that the boy is in hiding, 
and that the woman knows it. I want a man shrewd 
enough to find out to a reasonable certainty if the boy 
is really missing or not." 

The captain touched a bell and gave an order. 

“Bates is here,” he said, “and he is the man you want." 

Mr. Bates filled the measure of Drexel’ s requirements, 
perfectly. He was good-natured, elderly, fatherly in ap- 
pearance. It did not take Drexel long to determine 
that he was also shrewd. They went to the vicinity of 
the boy’s home. 

“What did you learn about the boy?” asked Drexel, 
after Bates had visited the house. 

“Very little. Frank has always had to work too hard 
to make acquaintances. His mother knows of no one who 
could have any reason for enticing him away from 
home.” 

“Did you sound her about the flowers?” 

“Yes, thoroughly. I am sure she has never heard those 
flowers mentioned. She gave me this.” He put a small 

155 


156 


MOINA 


picture into DrexePs hand. It was a cheap tin-type, 
showing a bright-faced boy in an awkward attitude and 
evidently dressed in his "Sunday best.” "She says it’s 
a good likeness and was taken about four months ago. 

I had to pledge myself to return it.” 

Drexel studied it thoughtfully. 

"It’s not a bad face,” he said; "not a tricky face. This 
will help us. Now, let’s consider our next step. I’m go- 
ing to take you a little farther into this business. You 
have yet some day -light left, and lam going to put these 
horses and my driver at your disposal. Next, try the 
police stations and the hospitals. Be sure that you 
visit them all, if necessary.” 

Drexel hastened to one of the many rooms he rented 
in the city. There he found Norton, the detective, 
awaiting him. 

"There is not much to tell," began Little Norton, while 
Drexel lighted his cigar. "I’m established under the 
same roof with your foreign princesses, and even have a 
room on the same floor. A young man, good-lookings 
and a foreigner I think, came this afternoon, earl}^, and 
staid just an hour and ten minutes. His name is Rene 
Savareis.” 

"Savareis. Rene Savareis! " repeated Drexel thought- 
fully. "It seems to me I have heard that name. Rene 
Savareis!" 

"When I got back," went on Little Norton, "I met 
with better luck. As I was passing the ladies’ entrance, 
a hall-servant was talking to a little man, uglier than I 
am, and not much bigger. He was asking for the 
Princess Orloff. He had a message that he was ordered 
to deliver at the lady’s own door, and there was a brief 
argument about it, loud enough for me to hear, after I 
had turned the angle of the hall. It ended in the fel- 
low’s being escorted to the Princess’ door by the servant. " 


THE DETECTIVE CAMERA 


157 


"Yes; go on." 

"When I heard what was to be done, I hurried on, 
stopped boldly a few paces from the ladies’ ante-room, 
and, with my back turned toward it, waited. When 1 
heard them close behind, I turned, began to speak, 
stopped, and said, as if annoyed at my mistake: ‘Oh, 
it’s you; I mistook you for some one I am waiting for.’ I 
had, of course, tipped all the hall-servants, with an eye 
to possibilities of this sort, and my servant 'was satis- 
fied. This messenger did not enter the rooms of mad- 
ame the princess, but gave his letter to a maid-servant 
and waited outside. I changed my position, took a step 
or two nearer, pulled a littlre string, and — click! he was 
taken, full length." 

He took from a breast pocket a small object wrapped 
in tissue paper, talking the while. 

"It was my little button camera did the business, and 
the print is a good one, though none too big." He 
had unrolled the tissue paper, and now held out a 
circle of sensitive paper, little more than an inch and 
a half in size. "I had to take him endwise,” he added, 
as Drexel took the paper. 

"But it’s him? Why, what?" 

Drexel had looked at the small unfinished proof, 
looked closer, and then uttered a sharp exclamation. 

Little Norton’s eyes followed him curiously as he got 
lip and went to the window to take a closer view. 

"Ah!" he said. "You have done well, Norton. It’s a 
good day’s work. I know him." 


CHAPTER XXVII 


SEEKING A CLUE 

"Eh! You know him?" 

"Well, we’re acquaintances. I have seen him; the fel- 
low ’s a spy, and I begin to think one who may prove 
troublesome. Oh, I remember! ” He stopped short and 
began to walk about the room. He had suddenly re- 
membered that on each of the three occasions when this 
spy had crossed his path, this stranger, Savareis, had also 
appeared. 

"Now, Norton, on two occasions," resumed Drexel, 
"there has been, on the one hand, Savareis and myself; 
on the other, this spy. Was the fellow watching Savareis 
or me?" 

"It couldn’t have been you." 

No," but it may have been you." 

"Great Scott!" 

"Norton, these men that we’re fighting are not chil- 
dren — they’re veterans, long-armed, and cunning. If you 
allow yourself to forget this, if you are off your guard 
for a moment, you’ll be detected, and then good-bye to 
your usefulness on this case. It would not be matter 
for surprise if, while you were operating with your pre- 
cious little button camera, the fellow was doing the same 
good turn for you." 

"No, he wasn’t," cried Norton. "From the moment 
when he handed his letter to the servant, he stood with 
both hands clasped on that crooked stick, just as you 
see him in the picture." 


158 


SEEKING A CLUE 


159 


*‘Well, Norton, if the man appears again, you must 
manage to find out his lair. Don’t lose sight of him 
until you do.” 

"Hush!" said Norton; ‘‘there’s somebody outside." 

A quick knock was heard. Drexel opened the door 
promptly, a little to Norton’s surprise. It was Officer 
Bates who entered. 

‘‘I’ve found him," said Bates. ‘‘When you left me, I 
went to the nearest station. There I learned that a boy 
answering to our description was crossing the street yes- 
terday and got hit by something, wagon-tongue or wheel. 
His head was all bloody, and he had got a broken leg; 
he is now in the hospital." 

Alter a few more questions, Drexel dismissed Bates, 
after bidding him report to him on the following 
morning for a possible commission. When Bates was 
gone, he turned to Little Norton. “This is the boy who 
delivered the flowers at Mr. Lord’s door on the evening 
of the reception,” he said. And Drexel briefly recounted 
the story of his experience in the pursuit of the boy, 
Frank Price. 

Norton listened with his usual stolidity. "If I am 
not mistaken,” he said, "you want to use me in this 
business.” 

“I want you to forego your dinner at the Occidental, 
and go at once to your old rooms and make yourself 
over. You are too well-dressed; a new face, too, will 
be safest. Then go to the florist’s place of business. 
Tell him of this, and ask him to go at once to Krupp 
Street, get Mrs. Price and take her straight to the hos- 
pital. She must identify the boy. I want you to go 
with them and keep your eyes open. At the hospital, 
find out the truth about the boy’s condition, above all, 
how soon one may talk with him. Ask Mr. Medlicott 
to assume for me all responsibility as to the boy’s care; 


160 


MOlNy4 


he must have the best. And his mother must not be 
permitted to take him from the hospital without my 
knowledge." Little Norton was looking at him in- 
tensely. 

"Well, what is it?” queried Drexel. 

"You have an idea about this boy," he said slowly. 
"I would like to ask what it is." 

"Two of Mr. Lord’s servants declare that they saw 
this boy, but they describe him differently. A woman 
who saw him pass the basement window tells of a small 
boy dressed in dark clothes and wearing a cap. Instead 
of going to the side entrance this boy passes on, and two 
minutes later, the street door opens to admit a boy who 
wears, according to the footman, a light jacket and a 
hat. He delivers the flowers that were seen by the 
woman. She is positive on that point, and he deposits 
them, with his own hands, upon the table, as I have 
before told you. ’’ 

"ITl wager,” said Little Norton", that you have a 
theory. What is it?” 

"Well, Norton, if you’re not direct, you’re nothing. 
But I don’t mind telling you. It’s hardly probable that 
a boy, upon the public street, and at the very door of 
a merchant’s house, should stop to change his toilet. It 
is possible that there were two boys, and that for some 
reason, the flowers changed hands. In that case, they 
were not delivered by Frank Price, for he wore dark 
clothes and a cap.” 

"Oh— oh!” 

"Now, these facts, taken together with the boy’s eva- 
sions when questioned, may mean that he was beguiled 
into trusting the flowers to another, who, in this case, 
was of course somebody’s agent. The Prices are very 
poor, and a bribe may have been offered him." 

"Now that I understand matters," said Little Norton, 


SEEKING A CLUE 


161 


“Pm off. In the meantime how about business at the 
Occidental?” 

‘‘That must wait for the present. We have an ink- 
ling already, and I think may be able to trace our spy 
through Savareis. If things grow complicated, I shall 
put some one else in your place at the hotel and give 
you livelier work.” 

“That suits me,” said the little man; "and now for 
the florist.” 

When he was at last alone, Drexel penned the follow- 
ing note to Madeline Payne: 

“My Friend: Under present circumstances, it seems 
best that I should not call at your home, but I wish to 
see you. I shall ride in the park to-morrow morning 
from 10:30 to 12 o’clock. If you should be there also 
at that time, it would make me your most happy and 
grateful servant, R. Drexel.” 

“There!” he said. “If that falls into wrong hands, it 
will be taken for a love letter. She will be quick 
enough to understand.” 

Moina — / / 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A NEW PURSUIT 

The crowd at Court and Laffin streets was less dense 
in the evening; rather, the number of vehicles was some- 
what lessened, while the foot passengers surged on in 
shoals. These corners were the points from which 
several theaters, cafes, and other resorts quite as popu- 
lar if less proper, were reached with ease, and street- 
cars and omnibuses discharged here their evening freight 
of pleasure-seekers. As a consequence, street-stands 
were numerous in this locality, and newsboys and boot- 
blacks conspicuous. 

Early in the evening, a dignified personage might 
have been seen about these four corners, moving with 
the throng, now here, now there, seeming quite at his 
ease and in no haste. 

He was tall and rather stout, with blonde hair and 
whiskers — wearing a high silk hat and gold-rimmed spec- 
tacles, and carrying a heavy cane in his gloved hands. 
After some time spent in seemingly aimless loitering, 
this man paused and stood upon the northeast corner 
of the intersecting streets. For some moments he 
watched the maneuver of a talkative little boot-black, 
who had stationed himself at the foot of a flight of 
steps leading up to a lofty entrance in the angle of the 
great corner building. This lad had been very busy for 
more than an hour, polishing the boots of the pleasure- 
goers. He seemed to know many of his patrons and to 

162 


A NEW PURSUIT 


163 


be a most popular artist in his line. While at work 
upon one pair of feet, he had for the most part, two or 
three customers in waiting. 

For the first moment in many, he looked about him 
and saw no pair of feet waiting the application of his 
brushes. “Business played out for to-night,” he mut- 
tered, and then he noticed the tall man with the spec- 
tacles, who had gradually drawn nearer as the last pa- 
tron moved briskly away. “Want yer boots blacked, 
sir? " 

“Yes, my boy," said the stranger in a genial tone. “I 
have been waiting for my turn for some time. These 
are busy corners, I should judge from what I saw to- 
night," he said, carelessly. 

“Busy! Yes, you just ought to come along here in the 
day-time. I tell ye it keeps the perlice busy." 

“Is it worse than at night?” 

“You bet it’s worse. There’s so much more teamin’ 
then; drays, an’ wagons an’ things." 

“Oh, yes indeed. Do you ever have an accident in 
these crowds?" 

“Accidents? My, yes! There’s smash-ups most every 
day. Folks gits knocked down tryin’ to dodge ’crost. 
An’ last week a man just rushed out there and flung 
himself down right in front of the cable cars, tryin’ ter 
git run over. The perlice yanked him off the track in 
time, though.” 

“My, my! It must be an unsafe place for children — 
for boys out alone. Boys are apt to be careless some- 
times. ” 

“That’s so. Why, only yesterday a boy got knocked 
down out there, right under the feet of some big horses, 
and he was just about tramped to death. I seen the hull 
thing. " 

“Really, now. That must have frightened you." 


164 


MOINA 


“Not me; Pm used to it. It scairt the other boy 
though. My, but how he lit out!” 

“Were there two boys?" 

“Yes, two of ’em started acrost together.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

“Well, ^ taint much. I didn^t happen to be busy, and 
I noticed the two boys come up and stand on the pave- 
ment right oyer there behind you. Don’t s’ pose I’d 
’a’ noticed ’em, if it hadn’t been for a old sardine of a 
Jew a-standin’ dost to ’em. I hate a Jew. An old Jew 
did me a mean turn once, an’ the hull lot of ’em’ s mean, 
anyhow. This one looked meaner than most." 

“Wh}^ how did he look?" 

“I guess you ain’t seen many of ’em," said the boy, 
glancing up and ceasing from his labors. “He was a 
little, dried-up codger, with an old butternut coat on, 
and he had a big knotty walkin’-stick in his hand. I 
noticed him lookin’ at the two boys, an’ I seen him 
give the little feller a real mean, ugly look, ’afore the 
boy had jostled him or somethin’." 

“Did he speak to the boys?" 

“No, not that I seen. He was just a scowlin’ at the 
little un when I happened to see, an’ that made me take 
more notice of them boys than I would generally. I 
thought the little chap seemed kind o’ scairt like; he 
kept hurryin’ the other one along." 

“Was it the little one that was hurt?” 

“No, it was the big one, and he wan’t very big.” 

“As big as you, perhaps?” 

“Well, mebbe a little bigger. As I was sayin’, they 
all started to run acrost together, an’ they went into 
the crowd Injun file." 

“Did you see which went first?” 

“Yes, ’twas the little feller. An’ the Jew with the 
big stick came last. They was all mixed up among the 


A NEIV PURSUIT 


165 


wagons an’ horses fer a minhit, an’ then I seen the 
boy go down under the horses’ feet, an’ then the cops 
rushed in, an’ just then the little feller streaked it past 
me, an’ off the same way he came. My! but his face 
was white an’ he just legged it.” 

"What became of the Jew?” 

"Oh, I didn’t see no more of him. He got across safe 
enough, you bet, and went right along. ’Twant nothin’ 
to him how many boys got killed right under his nose; 
he didn’t stop to look after the boy, or I’d a seen 
him.” 

“And the boy that was hurt; what became of him?” 

"Took him to the hospital.” 

"It seems to me,” said the stranger slowly, “that I 
read about that boy in the newspapers. But, my lad, 
the paper said that the injured boy was alone; that no- 
body could identify him.” 

The boy recoiled a step, and a look of anger flashed 
into his face. “Look here,” he said, “what’ re ye givin’ 
me, anyhow?” 

“Softly, boy, softly. I only thought it was strange 
that nobody knew the boy. Didn’t you tell the police 
what you saw?” 

“Well, I jest didn’t. What for would I? ’Twant my 
business. D’ye s’ pose I wanted ter be jerked off ter the 
perlice station for a witness, an’ like as not shet up 
over night, an’ leave my stand an’ lose my trade? Not 
much! I’ve got to take care of number one, I have. 
Who’d pay me or thank me? No sir. What’s the perlice 
fer. I’d like ter know? I ain’t a doin’ their work. Darn 
it, anyhow, I wish I’d a kep’ my blamed .mouth shet.” 

“You need not be uneasy about me, boy. I’m your 
friend, and I shall not abuse your confidence. But,” he 
added, musingly, “I feel interested. I’d — give — five dol- 
lars — to see that boy — who ran away." 


166 


MOinA 


“Would ye?" cried the boot -black. “Wal, I wish I 
could jist run acrost him then, that’s all.” 

“Would you know him again?" 

“Know him? In course I’d know him." 

“And would you know the Jew?” 

“You bet." 

“Even if he had changed his butternut coat for an- 
other? ” 

“I’d know him with his ugly mug, anyhow.” 

The stranger seemed to meditate. He was jingling 
some loose coin in his hand. He had not as yet paid 
the boot-black. 

“What is your name, my lad?” he asked, presently. 

“Johnny Deegan.” 

“Where do you live?” 

“Oh, most anywhere. Sometimes with some of the 
other boys, sometimes at the Home. I ain’t very per- 
ticler about lodgin’ s.” 

“And how much do you earn a day, Johnny? How 
much at the most?” 

“Well, since I’ve been at this stan’ I’ve done pretty 
well; most days have earned a dime or two.” The boy 
was putting away his brushes. It was evident that he 
did not mean to be communicative about his earnings. 

The stranger smiles. 

“Listen, Johnny,” he said. “I see you want to be off. 
Now, I’m going to make you an offer.” Johnny slung 
his box across his shoulder and stood waiting. “I’m in- 
terested in your story about these boys. Do you suppose 
if you gave all your time to it you could find the boy 
that ran away? Wait, let me finish. Of course, you 
would have to look for him on the street, in the places 
where such boys are likely to be. You ought to know 
where to search for such a boy.” Johnny grinned. 
“Was the boy well-dressed?” 


A miV PURSUIT 


167 


"Umph! ’Bout as well as me.” Johnny certainly 
could not be accused of being well-dressed. “T’other, 
one, that got hurt, was dressed better." 

“Yes; and if you were looking for the boy, of course 
you could keep your eyes open for the Jew. You are 
sure he was a Jew?” 

“He looked like one. I would go amongst the Jews 
to hunt him.” 

“Well, my boy, suppose I offer to get you a room 
where you could sleep, and pay for your meals and get 
you a better suit of clothes, how much a day will you 
take to leave your corner here, and make it your business 
to look for these two?” 

“My eye! ” exclaimed Johnny, with a knowing wink. 
“So that’s your little game, is it?” 

“I’ll manage everything,” went on the stranger, calmly. 
“You’ll get your money regularly, every night if you 
like, and the day that you find either of them, and can 
tell me where they live, I will give you twenty-five dol- 
lars, and be your friend afterward. If you don’t want to 
black boots any more. I’ll see that you have work and 
good pay. By the way, Johnny, are you hungry?” 

“Wal, there ain’t many times when I couldn’t eat 
more’n I get,” admitted the boy. 

“Don’t you know a snug little place where we can go 
and get anything you want to eat, and talk this matter 
over? I’ll pay, of course. And here, take this.” 

At sight of the piece of money that was slipped into 
his hand, hesitation vanished. Johnny pocketed the coin 
and said; 

“I know a bully place about two blocks from here.” 

“Come, then.” 


At eleven o’clock that night, Roger Drexel might have 
been seen in the room where Ije had lately received 


168 


MOINA 


Officer Bates and Little Norton. The latter was present, 
now, and talking with unusual animation. Roger was 
standing beside a small table, upon which lay a tall silk 
hat, and a pair' of gold-rimmed i?pectacles, and was list- 
ening with evident interest, taking off, meanwhile, a 
blonde wig and a fine set of yellow whiskers. 


The next* morning, and for many mornings after, the 
freckled face and pug nose of Johnny Deegan was miss- 
ing from the northeast corner of Court and Laffiin 
streets. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


MADELINE PAYNE THE DETECTIVE 

Promptly at the hour named in his note to Madeline, 
Roger Drexel entered Central Park at the scholars’ gate, 
knowing that she would be likely to arrive at this en- 
trance, coming as she must, from below, for the house 
of Mr. Lord was upon Fifth Avenue, and not too far from 
the Park. He was splendidly mounted, and looked as 
handsome and care-free as any idler of the morning. 
He lingered a little near the entrance, then turned into one 
of the bridle-paths, taking care to choose a course 
that would bring him back soon to Fifty-ninth street, 
and the scholars’ gate. He had not long to wait. 
Madeline, too, was prompt, and, as he rode to meet her, 
and wheeled his horse beside her own, after an exchange 
of morning greetings, no one could have guessed, seeing 
them canter blithely away, that theirs was not a rendez- 
vous of pleasure. 

"Tell me your news, please," said Drexel. 

"Last night we held a council of war; first Dr. Vaughan 
and I alone, then with Mr. Lord. Of course, you don’t 
want the details, for there was an argument as long as 
the doctor would permit. We have carried our point, or 
your point. It was your suggestion. Mr. Lord has con- 
sented to shut up his house and go to the country as 
soon as it is prudent to remove him." 

Drexel’ s face showed his surprise and gratification. 

"Tell me,” he said finally, "something more about 
your voyage across the Atlantic in company with Mr. 

169 


170 


MOIN/f 


La Croix and his party. How many did that party num- 
ber? ’’ 

“There was no party. Only Mr. La Croix and his 
daughter. ’’ 

“You forget the Englishman.” 

“No; the Englishman was presented to Mr. and Miss 
La Croix, as he was to Mrs. Ralston and myself, by the 
captain.” 

“And what other acquaintances did you make, you and 
the La Croix? I have a reason for asking, believe me.” 

“I do not doubt/’ she said gravely, 'and I begin to 
comprehend. Then there was the young man I told you 
of, the artist; he called himself such. He came on 
board alone, and soon became friendly with the English- 
man. ” 

“One moment. Was he a handsome, slender, dark- 
eyed youth?” 

“Yes,” wonderingly. 

“And was he called Savareis? Rene Savareis?” 

“True. ” 

“Now, do you not consider it odd that these three 
strangers should grow into friendly relations so rapidly? 
That, soon after their arrival, they were all together at a 
meeting of anarchists — Mr. La Croix the speaker of the 
evening, introduced by this Crashaw, as one he had long 
known, and this handsome artist, Savareis, seated in the 
audience, acting as escort to Miss Moina La Croix? Do 
you not begin to understand me? Do you think now 
that the spy who followed Miss La Croix from your house 
was merely the tool of a jealous man?” She turned in her 
saddle, and for a moment they regarded each other 
silently. 

“I see — many things,” she said at last, “and while I 
cannot yet abandon my faith in Moina La Croix, I un- 
derstand fully that you were right and I was wrong. 


MADELINE PAYNE THE DETECTIVE 


171 


She must be proven guilty — or vindicated. I still be- 
lieve in her. But I will do as you wish. I will see her 
to-morrow, or to-day if you desire it, and I will adopt 
any line of conduct you may advise." 

"You must, of course, leave Mr. Lord’s house soon." 

"Yes." 

"Will you procure a companion, and take up your res- 
idence, for a time, at the Occidental?/ 

"Will you tell me for what?" 

"Oh, I am taking you at your word. I want a detect- 
ive there; someone who can report to me the doings of 
one Princess Sacha Orloff, a fair Russian — who can, per- 
haps, make her acquaintance." 

“What and who is this Princess Orloff?" 

"She is a genuine princess and a very beautiful wo- 
man. I believe her to be a spy." 

"Of the Russian government?" 

• "That I cannot say. She may, on the other hand, be 
a nihilist. " 

"I care nothing for your fair Russian," said Madeline. 
"But I would like to believe that Moina La Croix is — 
what she seems. " 

"If you will write again to Miss La Croix, telling her 
that Mrs. Ralston is still ill, that you are about to make 
a change, not only on her account, but because Mr. Lord 
has decided to be absent from the city for some time, 
and that for this reason you will hardly be able to see 
her for a few days, it will, I think, serve our purpose 
better than a visit. You might add that as soon as you 
have settled yourself in new quarters, you will inform 
her. I don’t want you to lose sight of her, or to aban- 
don your friendly footing at her house." 

"Mr. Drexel, have you not reasons for suspecting Mr. 
La Croix, other than the fact of his being a socialist, 
and having addressed a meeting of these people?" 


172 


MOIN/I 


"Miss Payne,” he said, gravely and slowly, "I hope 
the time will come when I can tell you my own story, for 
all my knowledge of these people and their doings is 
founded upon that — upon personal experience. I have 
told you something, but not all, and this is not the time 
to talk of myself. Besides, I am not free now to reveal 
much that I know.” 

"Pardon me,” she began. "Will you pardon me if 
I ask your further indulgence? You are entitled to my 
fullest confidence, and in time I shall beg of you to bear 
all that I have to tell. This much I can say now: I 
have known for a long time that efforts were being made 
to draw the different leagues and brotherhoods of our 
great cities into a union; to band them together, and 
then to join them to the great body, with one head, that 
is spread all over Europe. I have known, too, that those 
high in authority then intended to soon set up their 
standard here; to send here numbers of that inner circle 
which dominates all the others, unknown, in many in- 
stances, to the men so dominated; knowing this, I have 
been watching for the coming of these men. Shortly 
after the arrival of the La Croix in this country, 
I learned from high authority that the men from 
whom so much was expected and required were now 
in New York. The fact of their appearing publicly at 
a socialists’ meeting puzzled me a little at first, for these 
leaders usually operate secretly, and are hardly ever 
known to the rank and file. However, I suppose they 
thought that a new departure was advisable in this in- 
stance. I have observed, in the meantime, that they 
have been careful not to repeat the experiment of ap- 
pearing together in public. The Englishman has been 
present, has presided at two or three meetings, never 
twice in the same place. Savareis has addressed several 
other gatherings. I think he is the chosen orator of the 


MADELINE PAYNE THE DETECTIl^E 


173 


embassy, and a fiery, flowery, eloquent fellow he is. 
But Mr. La Croix has not yet made his second appear- 
ance in public. The timely arrival of these men, the 
manner of it, and their own actions have caused me to 
fix upon them as the men we must deal with.” 

'T see, and am convinced. I ask no more. But I hate 
to think that Moina La Croix’ father may have connived 
at, perhaps ordered, the death, the assassination of one 
of my friends. He looks honest; he looks noble.” 

"He is honest; he believes in his cause. But, my 
friend, if these men are what I consider them, and we 
could peep into their black-list, we would find, perhaps, 
the name of more than one whom we know.” 

“Is there such a list? Can it be! If that is so, we 
would be justified in committing burglary to obtain it.” 

"Leave that — the list, and, if necessary, the burglary 
— to me.” _ 

She comes closer to him, a strange excitement 
glowing in her eyes. "Oh, [ begin to feel my 
nerves grow tense — to scent the battle. I feel like a 
duelist in the eve of deadly combat.” 

"And that is what you are; what we both are. From 
to-day, I go into action, burning my bridges behind me!” 


CHAPTER XXX 


A BIRD ENSNARED 

For the first three days following Mr. Lord’s unfortu- 
Tiate dinner, Moina La Croix found little time for thought. 
Her father was really ill, and before midday, in spite of 
his objections, she had sent for a physician. 

“Doctor,” she asked, “is he going to be seriously ill?" 

“I do not think he will be very ill," he said. “Tell 
me; have you seen him like this before?" 

“Yes, he could never be brought to admit it, but 1 be- 
lieve that every one of these attacks has been brought 
on b}^ a shock of some sort, or by anxiety, or some form 
of mental strain. " 

As she had feared, Rufus Crashaw came that evening, 
and as he was unwilling to take his dismissal from Mar- 
got, Moina went down to the studio where he waited. 

“My father is ill,” she said, coldly and without seem- 
ing to see the proffered hand. “He must be kept per- 
fectly quiet, the doctor says, and can see no one.” 

“No one but me," smiled Crashaw. 

“No one,” repeated the girl. 

“I shall not disturb him, and he need not talk. I 
have just a word to say to him." He moved toward the 
door, but she placed herself before it. 

“Mr. Crashaw, you have understood me. No one^ is 
admitted to my father’s room.” 

“Miss La Croix, I have a message for him. It will not 
excite him; but it is important. You must let me see 
him.” He spoke like a man who meant to carry his 

174 



“I WANT TO SPEAK ABOUT MY FATHER,” SAID MOINA.— Moina, p. 176. 



176 


MOINA 


point, and he expected to see his words take effect, but 
not as they did. 

“So my father’s comfort, his life, or death perhaps, 
are of no moment to you?” she said, haughtii3^ 

“Certainly they are, but I have put myself to great in- 
convenience to come here. I cannot lose my time fruit- 
lessly. I only want one word from your father." 

Moina turned and rang the bell; her face was pale, 
her eyes blazing with the scorn she felt. 

“Since you have come at so great inconvenience to 
yourself, sir,” she said, “I will save you another such 
fruitless errand. When it seems prudent to let my 
father know that you wish an interview, he shall be told. 
Until you receive a message assuring you that he is able 
to receive you, oblige me by not coming again.” 

"Madam !” 

"Be good enough to remember that I am mistress 
here.” And as Margot entered, she turned toward her, 
"Show Mr. Crashaw out, she said, and left the room 
without a backward glance. 

Early in the evening Rene Savareis came, and Moina 
hastened to receive him. 

“I am glad you are here," she said, after answering 
his questions about her father. “I wanted to see you; 
sit down." They were standing face to face in the stu- 
dio, and she turned, as she spoke, to assure herself that 
the door was closed. 

Rene seated himself and silently waited her next 
words. He was paler than usual, and graver. 

"I want to speak about my father," said Moina, seat- 
ing herself near him, and speaking in guarded tones. 
“Tell me: were you with him last evening?" 

“No.” 

"But you know where he was?" 

“I suppose so." 


A BIRD ENSNARED 


177 


"And the nature of the business that called him away 
unexpectedly?" 

Rene was silent. 

"Ah," she said sorrowfully, "I thought I might depend 
upon you. I thought you were my friend." 

"And so I am. Miss Moina. What is it? What must 
I say, or do? " 

"I know very well that something has occurred to an- 
noy my father greatly, or to profoundly distress him. I 
have seen him like this — ill, I mean, as he is now — be- 
fore, and always mental excitement was the cause. If 
there is any trouble, anything connected with the mis- 
sion he has undertaken, that has wrought upon him like 
this, I beg you to tell me. Oh, I wish you had been 
with him last night Why were you not?" 

"Last night," said Savareis, gloomily, "I was address- 
ing a meeting at his command." 

Moina gave a gasp, and rose to her feet, deadly p^)le. 

"Do you mean, " she panted, "that he controls — every- 
thing?” 

Rene nodded. 

"If this union is effected, will he — will he order these 
strikes, boycotts — what do they call them here? Stop; 
wait: If a man, an enemy to the cause must be disci- 
plined, warned, does the order — the — sanction for the 
deed come from him?” 

"Yes." 

She sank weakly into her place again, and for a long 
time neither spoke. She seemed to have forgotten his 
presence. * 

"Thank you," she said, finally, putting out a cold hand, 
which he took and held for a moment. "Thank you very 
much. And let us never speak of this again. I see now 
that I ought not to have forced you to tell me what my 
father, evidently, meant that I should not know. And 


178 


MOINA 


will you excuse me now? I — I must go to him. The 
new nurse is competent, but strange.” She got up 
again slowly, 

"You will come again — come often?” 

When he had gone, she did not go at once to her 
father’s bedside. Instead, she cast herself down upon 
the nearest resting place, and hid her face in her hands. 

"Oh," she moaned, “this is worse than I had dared to 
dream. Far worse! Far worse! It is horrible, horri- 
ble, horrible!” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


DEEP WATERS 

Miles La Croix was ill longer than the doctor had an- 
ticipated. Fever came and then delirium. 

One day, almost a week from the date of Crashaw’s 
untimely encounter with Moina, Passauf, who had paid 
his usual daily call, returned again after less than a two 
hours’ absence. He brought a letter for Moina, and in- 
sisted upon putting it into her own hands. 

“I am bidden to say,” began Passauf, "that this letter 
contains matter so important to Mr. La Croix and his 
welfare, that you can but'serve him by giving it prompt 
attention. I will wait for your reply." 

The tone more than the words impressed Moina. She 
took the note and opened it in his presence. 

"Whatever it is,” she thought, "he shall know that I 
have read it, and his messenger shall not see me dis- 
turbed.” This is what she read: 

"Miss La Croix: — Passauf reports that your father is 
growing delirious. If this continues, for his sake, for 
your own, and for the cause to which he is devoted, 
watch well this phase of his illness. A man of his tem- 
perament would be likely to rave of what has been much 
in his thoughts. If this is so, no stranger must hear 
such ravings. Everything depends upon your caution. 
You have employed a trained nurse; he must be dis- 
missed. I can send you a man who is competent and 
safe. But it would be wiser to let only those attend him 

179 


180 


MOIN/i 


who have nothing to learn from his ravings. Do not 
ignore this, for your father’s sake and safety. 

"Crashaw. " 

Moina stood in silence for a moment, holding the let- 
ter in her hand. 

"That letter," observed Passauf, "must be destroyed." 

She held it out to him without a second glance. "Take 
it,” she said. 

"And your reply?” 

"Sa> to Mr. Crashaw that I understand him. No one 
save myself will attend my father in his waking moments. 
I shall do nothing to endanger my father^ s life, health 
or safety, he may be assured.” 

"And is that all?” 

"That is all." 

When he had gone, Moina dispatched a note to Rene 
Savareis. 

"Come at once, " it said, "upon receipt of this. ” Then 
she went back to her father’s bedside and, although he 
was passive and seemed to be sleeping, she did not once 
leave him until Margot came softly to announce Savareis. 

"You were long in coming,” was her greeting, as she 
entered the little second floor drawing-room, where she 
had bidden Margot bring him. 

"I was out when your note came. Am I too late? I 
lost no time, I assure you,” he said, anxiousl3^ 

"You are in time,” she replied. "And I am going to 
test your friendship. Do you know what Rufus Crashaw 
has written me?” 

"He spoke to me of your father’s delirium, of its pos- 
sible consequences. I can guess what he might have 
written." 

"To make it certain, I will tell you." She repeated 
almost word for word Crashaw’ s letter and her own 
reply. 


DEEP IVATERS 


181 


“Oh," said Savareis quickly, “I wish you would let me 
help you." 

“Will you? I sent for you to ask it. I could think 
of no other way. Can you? Oh, I can hardly talk co- 
herently. He is resting now — I mean my father, but he 
may wake at any moment. He has only muttered vaguely 
as yet, but this may change. Tell me; can you come 
here and stay until this delirium passes?" 

She stopped abruptly; he had approached and taken 
her hand gently between both his own. 

“Let us not exaggerate anything," he said; “there is 
possible danger, to be sure. He may say what a stranger 
should not hear, and he may only mutter incoherencies. " 

“He will not," she broke in, “unless the fever leaves 
him at once. He will pass from incoherence into ran- 
dom talk as distinct as your words and mine. He will 
talk' of his interests, his anxieties, everything.” 

“Then I shall know how to explain things to the nurse 
whom, of course, you cannot altogether dispense with. 
During his wakeful moments, you and I will sit in his 
room, keeping the nurse within call, but out of hearing. 
When he sleeps, the nurse may take the watch, with 
myself always near at hand to be aroused at once if he 
should chance to wake." 

Moina’s worst fears proved well-founded. The fever 
did not abate for several days, and during that time the 
sick man laid bare his very heart before his daughter and 
Rene Savareis; all his enthusiasm, his hopes, his fears, 
his doubts. After that sickness Moina La Croix could 
never say that she did not understand her father, better 
even than he understood himself. 

“All this is safe with me," whispered Rene, when they 
stood one night beside the bed, both pale and startled 
because of what they were listening to. “Some day, when 
this is over, perhaps you will let me tell you a little 


182 


M01Nj4 


about myself, so that you may know how well I under- 
stand your position. And until then, trust me, look 
upon me as a safe friend; a brother if you will." 

"Oh," she said putting out a hand to him, "what would 
I have done, what could I do now, without you? If I 
did not trust you fully, I could not bear it." 

She did trust him fully; nevertheless she did not know 
that on the evening that she saw him installed under 
Miles La Croix’ roof as assistant nurse or guardian, 
he sent to Rufus Crashaw the following lines: 

"At Miss La Croix’ request,! shall remain here and share 
hei watch at her father’s bedside. The nurse proper 
will only attend him during his hours of sleep. I think 
you need feel no further anxiety; all our interests, at 
present, are identical. You, will of course, look to the 
business of those two meetings. At present, I can best 
serve the Cause here. Savareis. ” 

While her father’s illness and delirium was at its 
height, Moina received a second note from Madeline 
Payne. It informed her that Mr. Lord was soon to leave 
the city; that the house on Fifth Avenue was to be 
closed; that Mrs. Ralston, in company with Mrs. Girard, 
was contemplating a visit to the country; and that she, 
Madeline, had decided to remain in the city, possibly 
taking up her abode in one of the Avenue hotels, where 
she should hope once more to receive Moina. This 
letter occasioned Moina some mental agitation, but she 
forced it out of her mind as much as might be, all her 
strength and time and thought being needed for her long 
vigil. Two days later the fever began to abate, and after 
that the change for the better was rapid. The delirium 
became once more incoherent, the murmurings less and . 
less frequent. 

"The worst is over," the doctor said. "In a few more 
days he will be his mental self again; in another week 


DEEP HEATERS 


183 


he will be upj not strong, of course, and needing the 
same quiet and careful tending. But his recovery will 
be rapid.” 

And now a new trouble possessed her. She shut her- 
self up in her room, and faced it and fought it, and took a 
desperate resolve. The book in her father^ s study, the 
book in which her own hand had written so many names, 
she now knew to be a record of those who were enemies, 
were dangerous to the cause; a list of marked men. In 
some manner, and at times suited to the convenience of 
the leaders, these men were to be made examples of ; how, 
she did not know, and she feared to exercise her imagin- 
ation. Upon one point she was determined: Mr. Lord 
must be warned. She had eaten his bread, and he had 
been kind to her. He was the friend of her friend. At 
any cost to herself, he must be warned. Her father 
would never be suspected, would never know. She would 
act with the greatest precaution, but she would act. 

Safely locked in her own room, she penned the follow- 
ing lines: 

^ "Mr. Lord, Sir: — The writer of this has discov- 
ered, quite by chance, that you are in danger, and your 
property also. Do not leave your house unprotected, 
and look well to yourself. Do not go abroad at night, 
nor remain much alone. Your enemies are many. 

“A Friend." 


CHAPTER XXXII 


A NIGHT AT OHM^ S 

"The deal’s mine, Dandy." 

"No, it’s mine.” 

"Take it, then, and give us a light." 

"Give us a drink, Oi say. Here Jumpin’ Jack, bring 
on some more beer." 

"Let’s stop to drink ’em. Mike don’t treat every two 
minutes." 

"Hold on. Listen to Muldoon in there. What’s he 
racketin’ now?" 

"Oh, niver moind him." 

"That’s what Oi say. What’s the good o’ so much chin? 
When it comes to business, Oi’m ready. Talkin’ll never 
give the poor laborin’ man his rights. Ain’t that so. 
Cully?" 

The man addressed as "Cully" sat with his elbows 
resting upon his knees, leaning forward and seeming to 
be intent upon a game of cards which had been progress- 
ing at the table around which four men were seated — the 
four who had uttered the remarks as set down above. 
There were other similar tables in the long, low, 
smoke-grimed room, and all of them more or less occu- 
pied by men, for the most part coarse, ill-dressed, and 
belonging manifestly to the lower, if not the lowest, 
type of humanity. 

The table where "Cully" and his friends sat was at 
the extreme end of the room, and nearer than any of 

184 


A NIGHT AT OHM'S 


185 


the others to a large, double doorway opening into a 
rear apartment, not so large as the other and differently 
furnished. Benches were ranged around three sides of 
the room, and near the rear wall was a table, behind 
which were two or three chairs, two of them occupied 
at that moment, and the third was pushed back behind 
a big, portly fellow, who was lustily haranguing the 
dozen or more men lounging upon the benches, and em- 
phasizing, with his fist, upon the table before him. As 
the card-players at the table near the door resumed 
their game, the young man designated as “Cully” turned 
his attention to this inner room. The speaker was a 
Polish Jew, small and wizened; his English was broken 
but easily understood, his voice was shrill and cracked. 
The motto of anarchism, he said, was the destruction of 
the present social condition. This object, to be sure, 
could not be attained easily. But the workingmen were 
in the majority. They could rule the world if they 
wanted to, if they only had the sense to dare it. There 
were certain obstacles to be removed. The capitalistic 
press continually deceived the people. It lied so much 
that the workingman who read it was frightened and 
would have nothing to do with anarchists, who were 
the real and the only true friends of the people. At 
this point, “Cully" drew his chair away from the table 
and nearer the door of the inner room. 

“Look at ‘Cully,’” whispered one of the players. "He’s 
gettin’ his eddication.” 

“They ride by you in their coaches, and their fine 
ladies in their silks and diamonds stare at you, and 
wouldn’t touch your wives and daughters with a finger- 
tip. Why are they better than we? If we took their 
money, couldn’t our girls dress and flirt as well as 
theirs? Couldn’t we drive their horses and drink fine 
wines and fancy drinks, and, bribe judges and run for 


186 


MOINA 


office, if we had their money? And couldn’t we have 
it? Why, to-day, here in this city, there are enough of 
us, enough laboring men, poor, oppressed, pinched by 
want and work, if they stood up together in one body 
against them, to take, away their homes, their mills, and 
railroads, and factories, in spite of their police, and 
their soldiers, and their laws.” The shrill voice ceased 
abruptly. The orator looked about him a moment, and 
sat down. Then there was a movement within the room. 
Evidently a recess was to be taken. Some of the list- 
eners clustered about the table and began a wordy dis- 
cussion. The others by twos and threes sauntered out 
into the saloon proper, and approached the bar, or 
scattered about the tables. The man ”Cully” got up and 
went forward slowly to the rear of one of the groups. 
Two men paused at the bar just in front of him. 

"No, thank-ee, ” he heard one of them say. 'T’ll not 
stop for any more. Til get me home.” The speaker was 
a tall man dressed like a workman and with a grimy but 
honest face. “Cully” passed him, and went out upon 
the street. In a moment the workman also came out. 
“Well, comrade,” said the young man, “and so you’ve had 
enough of anarchy too. Don’t mind my walking along- 
side, I hope?” 

“Not a bit,” replied the workman, after casting upon 
the other a quick, keen glance. “Fact is,” he added — 
referring to his companion’s first remark — “fact is, a 
man, a thinkin’ man, wants to take that sort o’ thing 
in small doses, and kin’ o’ digest it as he goes along. 
Ye’re a union man, I take it?” 

“Well, not exactly,” said the other. “I’m rather new 
here, and am just lookin’ around, sort of tryin’ to make 
up my mind where I do want ter stand. This ’ere busi- 
ness is gettin’ a good deal like religion." 


A NIGHT AT OHM'S 


187 


"Ha, ha! Jest so. Got to jine the church or go to — 
blazes!” 

The workman chuckled over his fine point. 

'T don’t know’s I take in quite all them fellows say,” 
went on “Cully, ” as if arguing with himself, “and still, a 
man don’t ’pear to stand much chance of gettin’ work 
till he is a union man. And then there’s the fund, if 
he happens to get sick or hurt.” 

“Yes,” said the other, “there’s the fund as ye -say. 
Only ye can’t always count on the fund.” 

“Eh!” 

“Just let me give you a bit of my experience. I’ve 
been in the union, and I’ve been out of it.” 

“And are you in it now?” 

“Yes, I’m in it now. I’ve got a wife and little ones” 
— there was positive bitterness in the man’s voice, “but 
if I ever go out again I stay out, and I may astonish 
some folks." 

“You was goin’to tell somethin’?” 

“Yes; it won’t take long, the way I’ll tell it. I jined 
the union as soon as I was married; thought I’d orter. 
I had a chum, lived next door, married like myself, and 
we worked together. Nobody gave more money ’ cordin’ 
to our pile, nor was more interested in unions than we 
was. But after awhile, a lot of blowhards got to run- 
nin’ things, and sendin’ us on fool strikes, till we got 
sick of it. It ain’t so fine for a workman that can 
command good wages right along to have to lay idle about 
half his time because a few grumblers want a strike. 
And that’s what it finally came to. And when the big 
strike come on, over the boss takin’ on a few non-union 
men, my mate and me did try to prevent that. But all 
the same, we went out peaceable enough with the rest.” 

“Was that a city strike?" 

“No; it wan’t here. I didn’t live here then. Well, 


188 


MOIN/I 


after awhile a man we both knew, a good honest fellow, 
got sick and his savin’s run out, and Jim and me went 
to the secretary to get him some help. Well, sir, this 
is the answer we got: ‘The sick man had got a sewin’ - 
machine and a carpet in his parlor, and the help was for 
them that was poor.’ 'You’re helpin’ Pete Slavin,’ I 
said. Slavin was a poor, worthless sot, who drank up 
all he could when he was sober enough to work, and was 
first .and foremost in every strike or talk of one. ‘Yes,’ 
they said, ‘Pete had nothing, and them was the ones to 
help.’ So Jim and me must help pay for Pete Slavin’ s 
strikes and sprees. That got my mate’s blood up.” 

‘‘I should say!" put in ‘‘Cully.” 

“Yes sir. He just swore ’t he’d never set foot in the 
lodge room agin, and he’d go right on workin’ and would 
like to see ’em stop him. He did go back to work that 
very day — ” here the narrator paused and sighed, ‘‘and 
before the week was out they fetched him home, feet 
foremost. " 

“Killed?” 

“No; only thumped half-dead. He was out again in 
about a month, but that got my mad up, too, and — well, 
their strike was a failure, and they blamed us for it.” 

“These big strikes mostl/"do end so. The old men 
come back, beat or no beat. The bosses of course 
always swear to stand by the non-union men that’s 
helped ’em through, but the bosses find it cheapest to 
give in in the end. The union men won’t work with 
scabs, and so the scabs get weeded out kind of on the 
sly. The union men promises big, and the scab has to 
go.” 

“Yes,” agreed “Cully.” “That’s the way.” 

“That was the way with me,” said the other. “I tried 
two or three cities, and my mate took to roving too. 
Finally I came here, but I hadn’t no union ticket, and 


/! NIGHT AT OHM'S 


189 


I couldn’t hold a place long. Winter was cornin’. I had 
a family to keep.” He paused and sighed heavily; "I 
had to give in. I had to go into another union.” 

"Well,” said "Cully,” with equal ruefulness, "I expect 
that’s about how I’ll pan out." 

"See here," said the other, earnestly; "you’re a single 
man, ain’t ye?” 

"Yes." 

"Well, then, take my advice. Tough it out; keep out 
of it. I tell ye the unions ain’t what they was at first. 
Now, it’s strike here and strike there, and you’re called 
upon to do things like as not that a man hates to think 
of." He stopped like one whose enthusiasm has led him 
too far. "Maybe I’m taking you out of your way, ” he said 
in an altered tone. But the other protested against this, 
and was so frank, so eager for advice and information 
that his companion thawed again, and before they 
parted they had exchanged names and agreed to meet 
again on the following evening at this Ohm’s saloon. 

When our friend, "Cully," found himself alone upon the 
street he consulted a shabby silver time-piece, and turned 
his steps once more toward Ohm’s. As he paused be- 
fore the bar, with due deference to the proprietors of 
the place, he could hear the words uttered by two men 
sitting at a table just behind him. 

"Yes,” said one, "we all knew he was anon-union man 
and he had plenty of hints, but he was stubborn and 
wouldn’t join." 

"Why didn’t ye punch his head?” asked the other, with 
a drunken leer. 

"Oh, we fixed him. One of the fellows on a ‘local’ was 
put up to drop upon his time. He played it well, lagged 
behind, you know, pretendin’ his engine wouldn’t fire. 
Bill ran into him and scattered about a dozen cars for 


m 


MOWA 


him. Bill got his head broke badly, and like to broke 
his neck. His brakeman did get killed.” 

"Cully” gave himself an angry shake and sauntered on 
toward the inner room. All the benches were occupied 
now, and many were standing, and almost to a man 
the listeners were stimulated to zeal, anger, enthusiasm, 
quite as much by the liquor they had imbibed as by 
the fire and force of the speaker. The place was noth- 
ing less than a school, a hot-bed of anarchy. 

Not far from the doorway, standing erect and immov- 
able, with the whole length of the saloon between him- 
self and the door of entrance, stood a solitary policeman. 

"Fool,” was the word that broke involuntarily from 
"Cully’s” lips, and then he was hustled aside. 

The crowd from the inner room ranged about him and 
the unlucky officer. Bedlam reigned. 

"A policeman! ” 

"A spy!” 

"Kill him!” 

Someone wrested his whistle from his hand as he was 
about to put it to his lips. He stood surrounded by 
menacing faces, brandished fists, knives, pistols. 

"Try to keep them at bay,” whispered some one close 
beside him; "try to work back toward the door.” 

"Don’t shoot," cried some one; "You’ll bring more 
cops.” 

"Back to back,” whispered the officer’s champion. "I’ll 
face the door, keep close to me.” 

And then "Cully” wheeled suddenly, placed his back 
agajnst that of the officer, and faced the crowd, with a 
revolver in either hand. ‘Stand back! ” he cried. “Fair 
play! shame on you! Thirty men to one!” 

The anarchists were not all warriors; they were not all 
brave. There were only two against them, but these 
two held each a pair of formidable-looking weapons. 


A NIGHT AT OHM’S 


191 


“Cully," with his resolute face and his two six-shooters, 
looked dangerous, and as he pressed toward the door, 
the officer keeping close at his back, the crowd gave way 
before him. 

“Trip up his legs," cried someone. 

"I’ll shoot the first man that tries it," said the officer. 

But now the barkeeper, fully aroused, asserted him- 
self. He had come from behind the bar and moved to- 
ward the door on tiptoes. With a hand on the latch he 
paused and seemed to listen. Suddenly he sprang back, 
waving his arms frantically. 

“The back way, boys," he shouted. “The cops are 
coming." 

At the same moment and greatly to his surprise, the 
street door was thrown open and a pistol shot rang 
out. 

It was enough. The audience of the burning orator, 
with the orator at its head, heedless of the order of 
their going, rushed back to the inner room and from 
thence into a friendly alley. While they were still push- 
ing and crowding at the narrow rear door, the officer and 
“Cully” faced each other. “Did you fire?" asked the 
policeman. 

'Yes, in the air. It helped. But they’ll be back 
again. Don’t stay here." 

“I’ll come back myself," said the officer, pocketing 
one pistol and keeping the other discreetly in hand, 
“and bring back a force." 

"Bring ’em,” said "Cully," putting away his weapons 
and turning carelessly away. 

The man who had opened the street door in the face 
of the astonished barkeeper, still stood on the threshold. 
He beckoned to the policeman, who approached him at 
once. 

“Come outside," said the new-comer shortly. When 


19a 


MOIhlA 


they were upon the street, he said: "Your orders were> 
not to enter that place, except in case of riot." 

"They were holding a bloody anarchist meeting," 
argued the officer; "I wanted to get evidence." 

"That’s my business," said the other. "Now go on, 
and don’t repeat this; you’ll spoil everything." 

When the officer had moved away, the man of author- 
ity turned back and entered the saloon. He was a tall 
man in shabbily rakish garments, his face half covered 
by a growth of stubby beard. He dropped upon a chair 
near the door and turned a careless gaze upon our friend 
"Cully," who now stood beside the bar. The rum-dis- 
penser was again in his place, and was pouring out a 
glass of something for "Cully." 

"What did you take that cop’s part for?" he asked 
sourly, as he pushed the glass near to his customer. 

"Cully” laughed and looked at the glass. 

"Cause I’m allers ready for a fair and square row," he 
said; "an’ I don’t see a gritty man get left; I ain’t much 
on cops, but hang me if I’d see any man try to go it 
alone ag’in, a crowd." He drained the glass and set it 
down. 

"Well," said the barkeeper, "all I say is, don’t show 
your phiz around here until this thing blows over. The 
boys might be hard on you." 

"Cully” laughed derisively. "I’m cornin’ here to-morrow 
night," he said; I’ve got an appointment." 

"You’d better not. The boys ’ll be likely to accuse 
you of being a spy; of tryin’ to jump both ways." 

"Look ahere, my friend,” said "Cully," "if any doubts 
me just let him speak up, I’m ready for ’em; I’m one 
of them and they know it. The first one that accuses 
me ’ll git this." 

The barkeeper started back as the cold muzzle of a 
revolver was suddenly thrust under his nose, and before 


A NIGHT AT OHM'S 


193 


he had recovered himself, ’’Cully," with a defiant burst 
of laughter, turned upon his heel and swaggered out. 

Instantly and silently the stranger followed. 

It was late and the streets' were almost deserted. 
‘‘Cully’’ soon turned down a narrow thoroughfare. At 
about the middle of the block, where the light was 
dimmest, there was a narrow alley to be crossed, and 
just at this alley two men sudderfly sprang upon him. 
Taken unawares he was borne to the ground beneath a 
rain of blows. He struggled manfully, and, seeing some- 
thing glittering in the hand of one of his assailants, he 
called loudly. 

His call was answered close at hand. A powerful blow 
felled one of his assailants, and the grip of two strong 
hands about the throat of the second caused the rascal 
to loose his hold and utter an inarticulate howl for 
mercy. 

"Are you much hurt?’’ asked the new-comer breathless- 
ly. And seeing the assailed man struggle to a sitting 
posture, he flung the second assailant from him, saying 
"Be off, then, and quick, or ITl make an end of you.’’ 

The fellow rushed away without a glance at his pros- 
trate and motionless companion, and the rescuer bent 
down and whispered eagerly: "Kenneth, old boy, are you 
badly hurt?" 

"Eh, what?” making an effort to get upon his feet. 
"Good heavens! Drexel, is that you?” 

"Yes, it^s I. Let me help you, Ken. What is it?" 

"I — Pm afraid my shoulder is broken or dislocated. 
Confound those fellows! ’’ He groaned and almost sank 
down again. 

"Lean on me," said Drexel; "let me help you to those 
'steps; Pve got some brandy. There, sit down a mo- 
ment. Do you think you can walk at all?" 

"Yes, after a little. Pm badly shaken up, but my legs 
Moifia — 


194 


MOIN/1 


are all right I think; let me rest here and go and take a 
look at that fellow. Have you killed him?" 

"If I have," said Drexel, "there’s one revolutionist 
the less. Those fellows followed you from Ohm’s place. " 

He bent above the prostrate man and felt for his hands 
and his breast. "Ho! it’s the man with the knife. No, 
he’s only stunned, Ken, and he’ll do very well where 
he is. I’ll send a policeman to look after him when we 
run across one. They seem to be scarce about here. 
As soon as you can walk, we’ll move a little away from 
here, and then I’ll get a carriage." 

When they were moving slowly away, Kenneth lean- 
ing heavily upon his companion’s arm, limping at every 
step, and wincing with the pain, he asked : 

"How came you on the scene, Drexel? I can’t under- 
stand it." 

"I’ve been on the scene more or less for a few days," 
replied Drexel; "and to-night, even without this advent- 
ure, I meant to place myself in evidence. What did you 
do to provoke that assault?" 

Kenneth related briefly, and laying light stress on his 
own part in the affair, the occurrence of the policeman’s 
visit. 

Drexel refrained from comment until they had found 
a cab and were driving toward Hosmer’s quarters. Then 
he said : 

"Well, what do you think of socialism by this time?" 

"Old man," he said, "I was wrong and you right. The 
ideal socialism does not exist, except in the brains of a 
few idiots like myself. The real socialism is a festering 
horror. " 

"You have progressed rapidly, Ken." 

"Thanks to you, Chris. Ohm’s is a good school." 

"So you are ready to drop the business?" 

"No, I am going on." 


A NIGHT AT OHM'S 


195 


'Ken, what folly! ” 

"I must! Oh, don’t think it won’t be a punishment, 
but I can’t draw back if I would. I’m in the maelstrom. 
There are others besides you, Drexel, who have their 
eyes upon me.” 

Drexel thought of the morning that he had seen his 
friend at Miles La Croix’ door with Crashaw and 
Savareis, and sighed. 

"At any rate,” he said, "you were not in earnest about 
going back to Ohm’s." 

"I was, Drexel; I met a man to-night who interests 
me; I want to see more of him; we were to meet at 
Ohm’s; when I get this shoulder dressed, and feel a lit- 
tle easier. I’ll tell you about him ; I wish you could see 
him. " 

"Well, Ken, at least you won’t present yourself at 
Ohm’s to morrow night, nor anywhere else I’m thinking. 
But I’ll hear about your new acquaintance, and if it seems 
worth while. I’ll be your proxy at Ohm’s. I’ll meet him 
at the rendezvous." 

Hosmer leaned back in the carriage; he was dizzy and 
faint yet, and it cost him an effort to keep his thoughts 
in order. But something still troubles him. 

"Old man," he said after a time, "were you aiming at 
this when you sent me into that den of cut throats?" 

"No, Ken; I warned you to keep out of mischief. 
Why should I grudge you a whole head?" 

"You know what I mean; was it a cure you intended?" 

"Yes, Ken." 

"And you talk about this new movement, and feeling 
the pulse of the enemies — was that all evil?" 

"Ken, you’re in no condition to talk now, and I will 
only say this: There’s mischief brewing. Lives and 
property, the peace of our city and our country per- 


196 


MOIN/4 


haps, are threatened; Pm lending a hand to help avert 
the mischief, Pm trying to make amends.” 

VRoger is there? I want to lend a hand. Can’t I?” 

‘‘Are you willing to ‘go it blind’ — to do genuine detect- 
ive work and ask no questions?” 

“Yes; anything.” 

‘‘All right, Ken. When your head is well again, we’ll 
talk.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


A NEW TERROR 

Miles La Croix, the Miles La Croix who had lain down 
upon that sick bed, never arose again. As the doctor 
had predicted, he rallied soon, and physically he was a 
stronger man than before, but the change in him was soon 
apparent to Moina and to others — a change as strange as 
it was terrible. 

He had laid his head upon his pillow a fortnight since, 
an enthusiast, a dreamer, eager to immolate himself, if 
need be, in what he believed the “good cause, ” — the cause 
of humanity— but scrupulous as to the means, resolute 
against brutal measures, deprecating all force and vio- 
lence. What fine chord had snapped under that mental 
strain, that struggle between love for his cause and love 
for all mankind? 

Doubtless the fierce puritans who worshiped the Lord 
with their lips and heaped up burning fagots about the 
luckless witches, with their hands, believed in them- 
selves. We have no record of a doubtful witch-burner. 
And even so, Miles La Croix believed himself born anew, 
appointed to a work. Pitiful no longer, the angel within 
him slain or fled, he was now a fanatic, an avenger, a 
madman. 

Only where his daughter was concerned did he khow 
any tenderness, and even here he was changed. He was 
less nervous than before, less excitable. He never com- 
plained of fatigue now, never refused to see visitors. 

197 


198 


MOINA 


And always there burned in his eyes a somber fire, a 
restless energy. 

"My father is mad," said poor Moina. 

But a commission of lunacy would have been slow to 
declare Miles La Croix insane. Never was there a more 
methodical madman. And now Rufus Crashaw was 
recalled, and Moina’ s humiliation began. He came and 
went freely every day, and twice a day, and often not 
alone. Down-stairs, in the little room behind the stu- 
dio, long consultations were held, and almost every even- 
ing Miles La Croix and Crashaw went out together. 

Shut up in her own room, cut off from outside help, or 
relaxation, her mind filled with horror at the change in 
her father, and at the revelations of the sick-room, heart- 
sick, and full of forebodings, Moina La Croix almost 
feared for her own reason. And then as sorrow made room 
for thought, the natural resistance of a young, vigorous 
and honest mind in a strong, healthy body, began to 
assert itself. She was a girl, and alone, with her father 
estranged, and in the midst of foes, for she now began 
to look upon all the socialists, with Crashaw at their 
head, as enemies. 

Even Rene Savareis she counted as arrayed against 
her. That her father was mad, she firmly believed. 
But how could she make others believe with her? The 
doctor, who had never known Miles La Croix before his 
illness, and who therefore saw no change in him, only 
smiled when she questioned him about her father’s men- 
tal condition. 

"Your father has a strong mind," he said sagely, "and 
a stronger will." 

What could she do? If only she could consult Made- 
line Payne, and that kind Mrs. Ralston. But Madeline 
had not been heard from after that second letter, and 
she did not know where to write her. And then remem- 


A NEIV TERROR 


199 


bering with a shudder what she had heard at her father’s 
bedside, she sighed. 

"No, I dare not go to her even if I could; I shall dread 
to meet her." 

But brave blood flowed in Moina’s veins. She would 
not give up to despair without a struggle. She deter- 
mined to face the situation, to defend her father, and to 
fight as but she could, Rufus Crashaw and his newly ac- 
quired influence. 

And so a fortnight passed, two weeks since her father 
arose from his sick bed, more than a month since the 
catastrophe at Mr. Lord’s, of which Moina had not 
heard a whisper. 

Mrs. Ralston, convalscent but still nervous from the 
shock of the explosion, remained secluded and content 
at Olive Lord’s. 

Madeline Payne had been for more than a week estab- 
lished at the Occidental, with a hired companion and 
her maid. Mr. Lord had been for days an inmate of a 
retired mountain cottage, weak, languid, but recovering, 
and with Dr. Vaughan in attendance. 

The mansion on Fifth Avenue had not been closed. 
Mr. Lord had left his home without sound of trumpets, 
and was believed by all save a few chosen friends, to be 
still at home but indisposed. Henry, the footman, had 
been left in charge. The housekeeper, cook, and house- 
maid, were still at their posts and regularly, in the morn- 
ing, the curtains and shutters in the drawing-room and 
dining-room were opened to the daylight, and in the 
evening, the lamps were lighted in all the lower rooms, 
and in Mr. Lord’s chamber and dressing-room above. 

The better to carry out the fiction of his presence and 
and to guard as well the steel safe sunk into the wall of 
his bedroom, Mr. Lord had installed Henry in his rooms, 
and there each night the faithful English butler, mind- 


300 


MOmA 


fill of the dignity of his surroundings, went early to bed 
in gingerly and solemn state, sleeping;jsoundly, and never 
dreaming, poor man, of the gleaming dagger that less 
than a year ago had quivered in the wood above the 
head of his sleeping master, above the very pillow where 
his own head now lay. 

One evening, as he was about to extinguish the lights 
in the dining-room, where nobody had dined, Henry 
heard the door-bell and hastened to answer it. He had 
received minute instructions as to possible visitors, and 
knew quite well how to receive them, whatever their 
mission might be. 

Upon the threshold he found an old man, tall and erect 
of carriage, with long white hair and brilliant eyes. 

"I wish to see Mr. Elias Lord,” said this stately 
personage. 

“Hi’m very sorry, sir, but Mr. Lord is not at ’ome this 
hevening. ” 

"Will he be at home soon?" 

"Hi think not, sir. Hit won’t be till quite late. Will 
you leave your name, sir?” 

"That is quite unnecessary.” The stranger hesitated 
a moment as if reluctant to go, and then: "I will, per- 
haps, call again,” he said, and turned away. 

Henry remained looking after him until he had disap- 
peared in the darkness, and then he closed the door, mut- 
tering as he did so: 

"Hi ’ad a good look hat ’im. Hi’d know him again, 
sure. Tall an’ spare; white ’air, an’ wot heyes!” 

As the tall man walked away with a quick tread that 
was more nervous than strong, a small figure came out 
from the shadows across the way and followed him. 
Never too near and always near enough, keeping him 
always in view,'’ with the care of an expert at the work. 
As they are crossing a little park, the old man pauses 


A NEW TERROR 


201 


again, looks about him and seats himself on a bench, just 
within the shadow of some clustering shrubbery. The 
spy also selects a bench a little aloof from the other, 
yet in full sight, and settles himself to wait. 

A half-hour has passed and the old man has hardly 
stirred. The watcher fumes inwardly, but is constrained 
to stillness. He must not attract attention, and the little 
park is tenantless,except for these two. He stretches 
himself along the hard bench, with one arm for a pillow, 
and this proves his undoing. He has been a long time 
on guard near the house on the avenue, and he is tired; 
but he will not fall asleep, bethinks, not he. How still 
that old man sits. How warm it is. He stifles a yawn, 
looks, yawns in spite of himself, closes his eyes, as some 
one nears him crossing the park, and — sleeps. 

When Miles La Croix reaches home it is long past mid- 
night. He lets himself in with a latch key, pale and wea- 
ry, all the fire gone out from his deep-set eyes. 

A light burns dimly in the vestibule, and some one 
glides out from the studio, causing him to start. 

“Moina! ’’ 

"Papa! is it you at last? How anxious I have been, 
and how tired you look! You are shivering too." 

"Yes; a little chill; I wandered further than I meant. " 

"Wandered, papa? Were you not at the meeting?" 

"The meeting?" He stared at her vacantly. "The 
meeting — we — no, we did not meet." 

"Not meet? Why, Mr. Crashaw came for you. He said 
there was a special meeting. He thought he might over- 
take you. I told him you had just gone out, and he 
hurried away. Were you not with him?" 

He began to mount the stairs slowly and with evident 
effort. "I am going to my room, Moina. Will you kindly 
poilr me some wine when I am there? I am very tired — 
too tired to talk: I shall retire at once." 


202 


MOINA 


The girl knew this mood and followed him silently to 
his room, poured him his wine and looked to his comfort, 
as she was used to do whenever she was permitted to 
serve him, which, since his illness, had not been often. 
It was useless to question him, she knew; she bent over 
him and kissed his cheek, and he wearily returned the 
caress. 

"Good night, papa," she said, "I must send Margot to 
bed. She is waiting up, poor thing. Pll look in again 
to see if you are comfortable." 

Moina lingered below, filled with an anxiety that was 
unaccountable even to herself. Where had her father 
been, and upon what errand. That he had not seen 
Crashaw she was sure. It was not like him to go out in 
the evening and alone, without a word. It was not until 
she went in search of him, when Crashaw came, that she 
learned from Margot that he had gone. 

The girl sighed heavily as she went back to her father’ s 
room. He was already asleep, with his head thrown 
back on the pillow, his white hair pushed back as if by a 
feverish hand. The light from a softly shaded lamp fell 
across those hands that moved slightly as if already he 
had entered dreamland. 

She had brought a bowl of cooling drink. Putting 
this down she seated herself by the bedside and looked 
sadly down upon the wan, changed face. 

Presently the sleeper moved, and began to murmur — 
broken words at first, and then intelligible fragments of 
sentences. 

"Another symptom," thought Moina. "He never used 
to talk in his sleep." Then she started and almost held 
her breath; she had caught one word that had aroused all 
her faculties. "Sentenced.” That was the word. She 
drew further back into the shadow now, and listened 
deliberately. 


A NEU^ TERROR 


203 


"Sentenced; yes. Twice do you say? Ah! it must be 
done then." His hands were moving as if writing. 
"But reason; try reason first." A long pause and then 
a profound sigh. "Who shall do it? Then I will see 
him; warn. " 

Moina’s heart was beating wildly. Suddenly she re- 
membered having heard or read that it was possible to 
converse with a sleeper who talked thus. She leaned 
forward and softly uttered the word he had spoken last. 

"Warn?" 

"Yes, warn; once more warn him. After that I say no 
more. Only — it must be I — I who does it." 

"It? What?" 

He did not heed. Some .new idea now entered that 
irresponsible brain. He went through the movement of 
opening letters and muttering vaguely. 

"Ah, here; I must put these on the book, the book 
where — " 

"The book’s here, papa, let me write for you," she 
breathed close to his ear. 

"Yes, write." 

"What shall I write? Read it to me." 

"Sentenced, definitely — Acton Peasley, manufacturer, 
tyrant, employer of four hundred men, women and chil- 
dren — martyrs. " 

"Yes." 

"Write next, Harlan Seynous, railway magnate." 

"Sentenced?" she breathed. 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Not settled, but soon. The others — never mind the 
others now. Peasley won’t be hurt this time, and the 
next — ” 

He stopped and his lips moved, silently, as was his 
waking habit when reading a letter not too plainly wri tten. 


204 


MOIN/I 


He lay prone upon his back, and his voice, but for a 
certain monotone, was so clear and natural that she 
found it hard to believe him actually sleeping. She sat 
there for a long time, but there were no more distinct 
utterances. Presently he gave a nervous start and 
awoke. 

She arose quickly and took up the cooling drink. 

“Here is your sherbet, papa. Will you drink it now? 
I think you have slept a little.” 

He took the drink and quaffed it thirstily. 

“Yes, he said, “I dropped asleep, and have been 
dreaming. That is one of my annoyances since my ill- 
ness. I dream so much it tires me.” 

“Are the dreams unpleasant, papa?" . 

“I don’t know; I think they must be, for I wake sud- 
denly and with an uncomfortable sensation — an actual 
distress somewhere. There, my daughter, go away now. 
I need nothing more.” 

When Moina was locked in her own room, she sank 
down upon her knees beside her bed, and buried her face 
among the pillows. 

“I have found a way,” she murmured; “I have found 
a way." Heaven help me, and heaven forgive me. 
"Sentenced! " no wonder my poor father is no longer him- 
self. I must save these men. I must! And I must 
save my father. Oh, Gracious God! give me help. 
Raise up for me, somewhere, one friend, just one, for I 
am desolate, and evil is all about me! " 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


A NEW VICTIM 

Mrs. Marvin, Mr. Lord’s housekeeper, arose as usual on 
the morning following the visit of the tall old man, and 
was not slow to discover that Harvey was not, as usual, 
visible and active about his duties. Cook was at work 
in the pantry, the housemaid was sweeping down the 
front stairs. Mrs. Marvin went with much dignity to 
the door of her master’s room, and, before knocking, 
listened for any sound within. All was still, and she 
applied her knuckles to the panel with some asperity. 

Still no sound. She knocked again, a double knock 
this time, but with no better success. 

Startled yet emboldened by this strange silence, she 
put her hand upon the door-knob, hesitated, then tried 
the door. To her surprise it opened at her touch — 
opened, and swung wide as her hand released the 
knob. And the next moment Mrs. Marvin was running 
wildly down the stairs. 

"1 don’t know to this day how I managed," she used 
to say afterward, "but I did manage to get that girl off 
for a policeman, and for Mr. Fallingsbee, without a 
panic. Tf anything goes wrong, send at once for Mr. 
Fallingsbee.’ These were Mr. Lord’s very words, and 
I managed to do my duty." 

Having done her duty, very little remained for Mrs. 
Marvin but a mass of nerves and confused utterances. 

Mr. Fallingsbee, who lived close by, was promptly at 

205 


206 


MOINA 


hand; and the housemaid, panting and perspiring, mar- 
shaled in two policemen. 

“What is it?" asked Mr. Fallingsbee and the foremost 
of the officers, in a breath. 

Mrs. Marvin, gasping and on the verge of hysterics, 
reclined on one of the high-backed, vestibule chairs sup- 
ported by the cook, who had been repeating over and 
over the same question. She lifted her face as they 
approached, and pointing upward, gasped: 

“Harvey! murdered! go up." 

Instantly Fallingsbee, who knew all of Mr. Lord’s 
plans and arrangements, led the way upstairs. 

The door of the chamber stood wide open as Mrs. 
Marvin had left it in her flight, and upon the threshold 
Mr. Fallingsbee paused horror-stricken. 

No need to enter to see that death was there. Har- 
vey was lying upon his back, his face turned away, his 
arms thrown out as if there had been one moment of 
struggle, then instant surrender. His breast and the bed 
about his body were red with his life-blood, and the shin- 
ing handle of a dagger still in the wound showed where 
the assassin had struck home. 

“Suicide," suggested one of the policemen, pressing 
forward and bending over the corpse. But Mr. Fallings- 
bee was clearer sighted. “Murder," he said. And 
then he put his hand on that of the dead man. “Cold," 
he added. “Been dead for hours." Then he turned to 
the officers of the law. “Mr. Lord left me in charge 
here, in case of any unforeseen event; I was empowered 
to act for him. Heaven knows this Js unforeseen. You 
understand — that is why the housekeeper sent at once 
for me." 

The two men nodded. 

"In the first place, will one of you mount guard at the 


A NE^V VICTIM 


207 


door? We must keep out the curious. I shall send at 
once for a detective and the coroner.” 

The two policemen nodded again, and exchanged 
glances of approval. 

‘T shall also send for Madeline Payne,” said Mr. 
Fallinsgbee, sotto voce, as he began to look around the 
room. 

Everything was in order. Not an article of furniture 
was out of place. Evidently there had been no struggle. 

There was no horror on the dead face, no look of 
terror or surprise. The assassin must have crept upon 
a sleeping victim, entering without noise. And how had 
he entered? 

Turning the frightened but curious women out of the 
room of death, Mr. Fallingsbee and the officer who had 
remained with him, went below and began a tour of the 
basement floor. 

Doors and windows seemed intact. The policeman 
tried them, one after another. 

“Must have had skeleton keys,” he said. 

“Nonsense, man. Don’t you see that every door has 
strong double inner bolts, every window a burglar alarm, 
all set and in good order? Let us go to the rear.” 

At the back of the house, a small hall with a solid, 
well-barred door, opened on the rear yard. 

On each side of the door was a narrow slit of window, 
which Mr. Lord immediately after the visit of the man 
of the “dagger and the letter,” had protected thoroughly 
with a net-work of light iron bars upon the inside. 
The transom above was similarly guarded, but the bars 
here were further apart and set in a light frame, which 
moved upon hinges, opening inwards, so that the tran- 
som, in its turn, might open to admit air during the 
heated days. 

“Ah,” said the officer, “here we have it.” He pointed 


208 


MOIhJA 


to the door. The key was turned, the bolts drawn. He 
opened the door and looked out, drawing back instantlj^ 
at a word from Mr. Fallingsbee. 

“Look there,” said that gentleman pointing upward. 

The frame-work of iron was swinging loosely, and 
half of the single pane of glass that had filled the tran- 
som was gone. 

“That’s it”, said the officer. “There* s a boy in the 
business, and it must have been a mighty small one, too. 
The piece of glass is just outside.” 

Mr. Fallingsbee turns away. 

“Let’s go back,” he said, “and leave the rest to the 
detective when he comes.” 

“We might question the women, ” suggested the officer, 
who seemed much inclined to enact the role of detective, 
himself. 

“No,” objected Mr. Fallingsbee; ‘ they will get their 
evidence mixed enough without too many questioners. 
Besides, one of them perhaps, has neglected to close that 
transom screen. If we put her on her guard she will 
deny it. The murderer came in through this door. We 
will wait for the details.” 


It was understood between Madeline and Drexel that 
he was not to see her at her hotel, where he would 
sometimes pay a visit to the Princess Sacha Orloff. 
They were to communicate by letter as often as neces- 
sary, and, if a meeting seemed best, they would select a 
safe and neutral ground — Olive Lord’s cozy library. 

Early as was the hour, Madeline was preparing to go 
out when the messenger arrived with a note from Mr. 
Fallingsbee. She tore it open eagerly, and read: 

Miss Payne: — Harvey has been murdered in his bed. 
According to my understanding with Mr. Lord, you are in 


A NE^V yiCTlM 


209 


his' confidence, and may, perhaps, be of assistance in our 
investigation. Come at once, if possible. Do you know 
where to find Hurst? If so, send for him. 

“Fallingsbee. ” 

“Horrible!” exclaimed the girl. And in almost the 
same breath, “How fortunate.” 

The first word was for poor Harvey, the last for her- 
self. She had made a discovery, and had sent a note to 
Drexel, the evening before, asking him to meet her that 
morning early at Olive’s. She had received a prompt 
reply. She knew she should find him there, and, flushed 
with excitement, she thrust the letter in her pocket and 
hastened to the rendezvous. 

Drexel was there before her, and waiting impatiently. 
He had heard the horrible news, having arrived as Dr. 
Vaughan was setting out for the house on Fifth Avenue. 
“Let us go at once,” he said. “My carriage is just 
around the corner. We can talk on the way.” 

When they were seated in the carriage, Madeline 
turned to him a troubled face. 

“This is growing terrible,” she said. “That seems a 
fated house.” Then, she asked, “Do you know any of 
the particulars?" 

“No; only that Harvey has been murdered.” 

T am so anxious! I have had such a horrible thought. ’’ 

“What is it?” 

“Did you know that Mr. Lord had put Harvey in his 
own room to sleep?” 

Drexel started. 

“Good Heavens!” he cried. “Could he have been 
killed in that room?” 

“The thought will not leave me that — ” She paused and 
they looked at each other with shocked faces. Then she 
said: “Can you investigate there without arousing sus- 
Mi>ina — 


210 


MOINA 


picion, or making yourself known to Mr. Fallingsbee as 
Hurst?" 

"Fallingsbee will have to know sooner or later. But 
I have arranged for that. I have sent to Captain B — 
for a man who will seem to conduct the business, I 
working with him. The captain will send the right man, 
be sure." 

She drew Mr. Fallingsbee’s letter from her pocket 
and gave it to him. 

"You see they want Mr. Hurst," she said. 

"Be easy; they shall not have cause to complain. 
But it is well that you sent for me. And it was by the 
merest chance that I got your note. You have made 
some discoveries, I suppose. After I have satisfied my- 
self about this murder, we must find time for a few 
words in the library. It may be our last interview for 
many days. Can you manage it?" 

"Yes. You are going away then?" 

He smiled oddly. "I am going into the lion’s den," 
he replied. Then suddenly he asked: "How happens 
Vaughan to be at hand?” 

Madeline blushed at the sudden mention of Dr. 
Vaughan’s name. "You know he comes up twice a week," 
she said, "to look after his own affairs; he chanced to 
come yesterday and was going back this morning." 

"He will have sorry news to carry to Lord.” 

"Yes. I suppose he must know it." 

"He must, of course. And if it is as we fear, it will 
complicate matters for us." 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE TWIN DAGGERS 

Dr. Vaughan’s examination left no doubts as to the 
murder. Harvey was slain in his sleep, struck once only, 
struggled once, and that was all. Even that one strug- 
gle must have been spasmodic. Only the nerves felt the 
blow, and responded to it; it was never recognized by 
the brain. And on the face still rested the relaxed, 
placid look of the sleeper. 

The three women, housekeeper, cook, and maid slept 
on the third floor, and had not heard a sound during the 
night. That the rear door was locked and barred, Mrs. 
Marvin was certain. As to the transom-guard, she was 
not so sure. Harvey was the one to look after those 
things. If he had omitted this duty last night, he had 
been horribly punished for the slight omission. Cer- 
tainly if the iron guard had been closed, the assassin 
could not have entered, or so it seemed. Evidently the 
assassin was no novice, no weakling. It was a steady, 
practiced hand that struck that blow. And he had left 
not a trace of himself. 

Nothing had been stolen. Robbery was not the mo- 
tive. What then could it have been? Harvey was almost 
a stranger in America. He had been heard to say that 
he had neither friends or relatives here, and only some 
distant cousins, whom he hardly knew, in England. He 
seldorn went out, and received no visitors. 

When Drexel and Madeline entered the room where 

211 


212 


MOINA 


the dead man lay, Dr. Vaughan was standing near the 
bed. Lifting his eyes to Madeline’s face, he saw her 
start and turn so white, that he feared she was about to 
faint. But she controlled herself, clinching her hands 
and biting her under lip. At the same instant a sharp 
exclamation broke from Diexel, and the two turned and 
faced each other. He, too, was pale, and the look they 
exchanged lingered long in Dr. Vaughan’s memory, haunt- 
ing and tormenting him. 

Not a word was spoken, and after one more long look, 
Madeline turned and went dizzily from ^the room, to shut 
herself up alone in the library. 

An hour passed, and Drexel came quietly in, and again 
for a moment the two faced each other in silence. Then 
Drexel said gravely: 

"Elias Lord certainly bears a charmed life." 

"You mean,” she said, "that his life is the price of 
poor Harvey’s? "Oh, what a fatality!" 

"Yes. It is horrible. It could not well be worse. As 
I live. Miss Payne, I believe that two innocent, honest 
men have been sacrificed in the attempt to reach Mr. 
Lord." 

"Two?” 

"Yes. Do you remember the old man who was assas- 
sinated last fall, as he was returning from church?" 

"Certainly. ” 

"That murder seemed like this, without motive. It 
was clearly proved at the trial, that the murderer did 
hot even know his victim. Jacob Traill might be alive 
to-day if he had not borne a fatal resemblance to Mr. 
Lord. " 

"Good heavens." 

"And I believe Harvey would be alive too, if he had 
not slept last night in Elias Lord’s bed." 

"Oh, this is too horrible! Something must be done." 


THE TH^IN DAGGERS 


313 


"Something shall be done," he said grimly, "and at 
once. We dare not dally now; it is time for extreme 
measures.” He drew a chair forward. "Sit down and 
let us talk as fast as possible. There must be no more 
vexatious slaying of Mr. Lord, if we can prevent it. 
And unless the villains are trapped and rendered harm- 
less, there will be other deeds like this. I fear that we 
cannot keep this matter out of the newspapers. When 
it is known that Elias Lord’s footman has been mur- 
dered in Elias Lord’s chamber, the terrorists will know 
that they have missed for the third time, the man they 
evidently intended to make a terrible example of. And 
that knife — ” 

"Ah, that knife," sighed Madeline. "It is like, it is 
precisely like the one I have~the one left in the head of 
Mr. Lord’s bed.” 

"Of course. Perhaps it was left by the same hand. 
At any rate it is the fac-simile of the other, and for a 
good reason. That is the knife used by the executioners 
of a certain brotherhood in Europe. In Europe, more 
than one poor victim has been found with that knife 
sticking in his heart. We have not got so well acquaint- 
ed with it here — as yet. But it will come surely and 
soon, unless the tide of coming revolutionists from every 
corner of the universe is stopped— unless a strong hand 
puts down these leagues and brotherhoods and bonds, 
that are, to the trades-unions of years ago, as is the jun- 
gle panther to the pastured lamb. 

"But to come back to the knife. Possibly as it is, 
some investigating reporter may see in this murder the 
method of the avengers, may reach the truth." 

"One moment," she broke in; "is it not best that the 
truth be made public? Oh, I know Mr. Lord would not 
wish it. I can see, too, that it may make difficulties for 
you. But if such danger lurks all around us, if, as it is 


214 


MOINA 


more than probable, others are menaced; they may be 
attacked. Indeed, Mr. Lord told me, when he received 
that first warning letter, that two others had received 
similar ones.” 

“I remember.” 

“To make all the truth known now, would be to sol- 
emnly warn all who have any reason to fear the murder- 
ers. ” 

“I agree with you, and yet, before this can be done, 
Mr. Lord must be consulted. He is out of harm’s way 
now — but do you not know him better than to think that 
he will stay in hiding — for it amounts to that — if the 
truth be known? He will come back and face the danger, 
or he would not be Elias Lord. ” 

“You are right,” she said. 

“We must consider this step well, you see. And first 
of all. Dr. Vaughan must be the one to bear this news. 
Before I go, I will put into your hands, a letter for 
Mr. Lord, from Hurst. You will ask Vaughan to deliver 
it. Mr. Lord’s reply will come to you. Of course the 
city detectives must be allowed to take up this case, 
and manage it in their own way.” 

“And you?“ 

“Be sure I shall not be idle. My plans, as you know, 
were already laid. This latest outrage decides me to 
make the plunge at once. It is a bold step but I must 
trust to it. It is not enough to suspect these men ; I 
must know, I must have proof. I will tell you just how 
we stand at present. But first; you sent for me. Tell 
me why?” 

She looked at him with a shade of wistfulness. “Do 
you still doubt Moina La Croix?” she asked. 

To her surprise he flushed and dropped his eyes. 

“I am still in the dark,” he said. 


THE TIVIN DAGGERS 


215 


She took a letter from her pocket, and holding it in 
her clasped hands, began her story. 

“Shortly before Mr. Lord left town a letter came, and 
Mrs. Marvin through some chance, received it at the 
door. In a fit of absentmindedness, she brought the let- 
ter into the library, here, and left it among a mass of 
papers then on the table. It was not until after Mr. 
Lord had gone, that I came upon this letter. I saw at 
once that it was directed in a woman^s hand. It even 
struck me as a disguised hand. It was not the hand that 
had written the warning letters — of that I felt sure. Of 
course I sent it at once to Mr. Lord. I did not feel jus- 
tified in opening it. I have just received it back. It is 
a note of warning. ’’ 

"Another?” 

“Yes, and from Moina La Croix.” She put the letter 
into his hand. “As you will see, there is little or no 
attempt to disguise the writing of the letter itself, but 
the address upon the envelope is reversed. I have re- 
ceived several notes from Moina. You will find two of 
them with the letter, that you may verify, yourself.” 

He examined the letter of warning and the two notes 
attentively. 

“How do you account for this half-disguise?” he asked. 

“I had written to her that I was on the point of leav- 
ing Mr. Lord’s house. Of course she could not dream 
that I would see the letter, but after writing it, second 
thoughts had suggested that I might still be here, that 
by chance I might see the outside of the letter. Hence 
the disguised address.” 

“Do you know how the letter came?” 

“No; Mrs. Marvin could not or would not remember.” 

“This letter is a strong indication. I may keep it?” 

“Of course.” 

“And how do you get on with the princess?” 


216 


MOIN/1 


"Better than I had dared to hope. The two women are 
very much alone. They accepted me in good faith; they 
actually court my acquaintance. I have jumped to one 
conclusion. ’’ 

"Oh! and that?" 

"Simply that the elder lady is not the mother of the 
younger. " 

Drexel smiled and held his peace. 

"The respectful tenderness of each toward the other is 
too marked. They have not always stood toward each 
other in the same position as at present." 

"You are very astute," he said. 

"I am likely to find my new companion something 
more than a figure-head after all," she went on. "Mad- 
ame Orloff’s maid and mine are already confidantes. 
And my maid, in turn, confides in my companion. Yes- 
terday, through this source, I learned something which 
may interest you. The elder lady is very melancholy. 
She tries to seem cheerful when with the younger, but 
she weeps much in secret; and she kisses and cries over 
a picture, which she hastily conceals from her so-called 
daughter, showing much fear and anxiety lest it be dis- 
covered. " 

Drexel started and an eager look came into his face. 
Tn some way I must manage to see that picture," he 
said. "Thank you. Miss Payne. That item may be 
worth more than you think. Is there anything else?" 

"Nothing. " 

"Then hear my report. First, as to our flower carrier. 
The boy, Frank Price, is still very ill; indeed, he knows 
no one, and lies in a half-stupor. I have talked privately 
with the surgeons, and they have examined very closely. 
They decide that the wound upon the head could not 
have been caused by a wagon pole, from its size and 
shape, nor was it the work of a horse’s hoof. It is, 


THE TIVIN DAGGERS 


217 


they declare, just such a blow as might have been in- 
flicted by a heavy and knotted cane.” 

"Oh, horrible.” 

‘‘The boy who was with him at the street corner, has 
not yet been discovered. Neither has the old Jew. As 
for Mr. Savareis, I have a shrewd detective lodged in 
the same house with him. He seems decidedly a young 
fellow of gentlemanly habits. He lives regularly, has 
few associates, and his part in the program seems to be 
that of a listener of and to the better class of social- 
ists. ” 

‘‘He has a frank face.” 

‘‘True, he has. And I fancy he may wake up some 
morning to find himself a dupe, rather than a co conspir- 
ator. He is in direct communication with the leaders. 
They are very guarded, but if Savareis can help us, be 
sure no movement of his will escape my detective.” 

Madeline sighed. 

‘‘For more than two weeks,” he went on, “I have lost 
sight of the butternut-colored spy. And the Englishman 
is a baffling personage. I do not yet know where his 
local habitation may be, for the reason that he seems to 
perpetually shift about. He has an aid, a factotum, who 
is movable like himself. And there is another man, if 
not two, whom I have not seen. And now prepare to 
smile. For more chin two weeks I have occupied, more 
or less, a room just opposite the house of Miles La Croix. 
My windows command its front. I have a strong glass 
and all the appliances of a detective camera.” 

“Oh!” Madeline’s face betrayed her keen interest. 

“I pass for a reporter,” he went on, "and can come 
and go at all times unchallenged. I have seen Miss La 
Croix at the door and at her windows often. I have 
used my glass remorselessly. I know that she has been 
deeply troubled, that she suffers. Mr. La Croix has been 


218 


MOINA 


very ill. They have had a trained nurse, and this Rene 
Savareis was there constantly for almost two weeks. 
The Englishman paid one visit and only one, during Mr. 
La Croix’s illness; after that his factotum called daily 
at the door for news. I have made the doctor’s acquaint- 
ance; I have even stopped at the door and chatted with 
the little Swiss maid.” 

"But was that safe? Might they not recognize you?” 

He laughed and put a hand up to his face. 

“See what I have sacrificed in the cause.” 

He drew away his hand, and with it came beard and 
false mustache. 

Madeline sat aghast at the transformation. 

The fine, strong face, as smooth as a girl’s, was very 
handsome, but very much unlike the mustached and 
bearded Roger Drexel she had known. The false beard 
was the fac-simile of the one he had worn for years, and 
no one could have guessed the truth. 

“You are the first to see me as 1 am,” he said, replac- 
ing the beard. “I live for the most part in disguise. 
And now, perhaps, I can tell you how the letter was left 
at the door.” 

“Ah, I wish you could! ” 

“Since the day after the explosion here, I have 
had this house watched continually. A very bright 
lad, especially trained for his work, has been on 
guard here every day and into the night, only re- 
lieved when necessary by another almost as able. 
This was done in the hope of detecting some messenger 
of the enemy in the act of leaving another warning, or 
of finding again our spy. Unfortunately it was the 
front only that was under Toole’s eye. I dare say our 
assassin has prowled more than one night through the 
alley and so reached the rear door. Probably he has hung 



HE DREW AWAY Hia HAND, AND WITH IT CAME BEARD AND FALSE 
MUSTACHE.— Moina, p. 21B. 


230 


MOIhlA 


about here for many nights, waiting for what is liable 
to come in every house, sooner or later, an hour of re- 
laxed vigilance, when some door or window will be for- 
gotten, and the assassin furnished an entrance." 

"Poor Harvey, ’’ sighed Madeline ; "he has been so faith- 
ful, and to think that his first forgetful act or omission 
should cost him his life.” 

"Yes. It furnishes matter for a sermon. But about 
Toole. Through him I have been pretty well informed 
as regards the comers and goers here. One day early in 
the morning I followed Miss La Croix and her maid to 
within a few blocks of this house. It was during her 
father’s illness, and I knew something urgent must be 
the cause of her early promenade. At a corner they sepa- 
rated, and the maid hurried away, while Miss La Croix 
sauntered slowly about until she came back. I chose to 
remain and look after the young lady, at a distance and 
unseen, of course. The maid’s mission I learned from 
Toole, who described her minutely. She came here, 
rang the bell, gave some one who opened the door to 
her, a letter, and hurried away. The someone was prob- 
ably Mrs. Marvin.” 

"Yes. ” 

"And the letter — this one I hold in my hand. The 
dates correspond. But I must get on. Last night Toole 
had an adventure. At about nine o’clock a tall, old man, 
whom from his description I recognized at once as Mr. 
La Croix, rang at the door, and it being dark, Toole was 
near enough to see that Harvey answered the ring. 
There was a moment’s parley, and then the tall man 
went away, followed by Toole. Mr. La Croix made 
slow and somewhat erratic progress, halting finally to 
rest in a little park that lay in his homeward route. The 
boy had been on guard all day and was tired. Mr. La 
Croix sat a long time, and the* boy being obliged to keep 


THE TmN DAGGERS 


very still in order not to be discovered, found the situa- 
tion too much for him. He fell asleep.” 

"Oh, how unfortunate! ” 

"Well, yes. When he awoke the old man had van- 
ished. After running about frantically, in the hope of 
recovering his lost trail, Toole went back to his post. 
It was nearly midnight and past the time for his relief; 
we won’t stop for details. Toole, upon getting back, 
saw in the shadow, what he at first took to be his sub- 
stitute guard. But a nearer approach undeceived him. 
It was Miles La Croix returned — heaven only knows for 
what reason. He hung about for some time, walking 
to and fro opposite the house. Then he set off a 
second time, and you may be sure Toole did not 
lose him again. I had been off duty, or rather, on 
duty in another quarter of the city, and was loitering 
in the street not far from my own door, watching the 
movements across the way, where, although it was past 
midnight. Miss La Croix was up and moving about 
restlessly, as I could tell by the shifting lights in her 
room, and the shadows on the curtains; first in her own 
room, and then below. While thus occupied I saw the 
return of Mr. La Croix, closely followed by Toole, and 
was not slow in getting the latter up into my room, 
where I heard the whole story.” 

“And do you think— can it be — ” She stopped unwill- 
ing to utter her thoughts. 

"That La Croix entered here and killed Harvey? I am 
not prepared to say that. He may have a guilty knowl- 
edge of the affair. But he was alone, and the murderer 
never entered this house by the rear door without the as- 
sistance of a lad small enough to crawl through that narrow 
transom. Besides, Mr. La Croix has lately risen from 
a sick-bed; he is an old man; I doubt if he could have 
the nerve or the strength to strike such a blow. One 


222 


MOIhl/i 


thing is certain, we must keep our knowledge to ourselves 
for the present. I intend to make a personal investiga- 
tion." 

"Poor Moina La Croix," said Madeline Payne; "she 
may be a revolutionist, or she may not be. All the same 
she has a heavy burden to carry. She may be a victim 
rather than a plotter; this letter looks like it. I pity 
her! I pity her! " 

"And so do I," said Drexel. "If she is innocent she 
shall be vindicated; be sure of that." 

A carriage drew up at the side entrance, just beyond 
the library window. Drexel looked out and then arose. 

"The coroner has come," he said. "And — yes, the 
captain is with him. Now all will be arranged as I 
wish. " 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


A COUNCIL OF THREE 


"Paris, France. 

"To Roger Drexel, Esq. My Dear Sir: After some 
delay I am able to send you the information asked for, 
the greater part of it at least. The documents herewith 
inclosed, copies of reports from various sources, will, I 
hope, supply you with the desired information concern- 
ing the Socialist La Croix, as well as the various leaders 
of the higher circles in Vienna, Berlin and Paris. The 
report from Italy is not so full as I could have wished, 
still it may serve. 

"As for the ‘difficulty’ you mention, I have encoun- 
tered none. We keep a closer surveillance over our rev- 
olutionists here in Europe than you Americans, and our 
records are very complete. 

"I think you will hear from my brother in St. Peters- 
burg promptly, and you may rely on his using all the 
means at his command, in his effort to aid one who has 
rendered such inestimable service to his unworthy 
brother in times past. 

"An important matter brought Ferrars, of London fame, 
to this city to confer with me, and from him I have this 
item: ‘The leader local to London is one Sharlan, an 
idealist, a strange man, with some very good points, it 
is said.’ 

"I do not think the man Crashawhas figured in Paris, 
but Ferrars tells me Crashaw, the great iron-master, is 
still king of his forge somewhere in the heart of Eng- 

223 


MOIHA 


2 ^ 

land, a long way from London. He is sure that Crashaw 
the iron-master never dabbled in revolution, and thinks 
there must be some imposture somewhere. 

‘‘Apropos of all this, one Dr. Lugos who was conspicu- 
ous here for a time, is missing from Paris. He would 
hardly be safer in London than here, and is thought to 
be in America or Australia. He is a Russian, but calls 
himself a Pole. Big, strong, swarthy, with a rather 
imposing presence. Should he chance to be one of your 
American Coterie, you have to deal with a dangerous 
man. He stops at nothing. Once more let me repeat 
how glad I have been to do you this small service. May 
it not prove quite worthless, and hold me always 
“Your debtor to command, 

“J. A. Bollossy. ” 

“St. Petersburg. 

“Mr. Roger Drexel. Sir: At the request of my 
brother j. A. Bollossy, of the Paris detectives, I have 
made haste to gather for you fuller details concerning 
the Prince and Princess Orloff and others, than was con- 
tained in my first report to you. And this time 1 think 
we have exhausted our resourses. Hopin'g you may find 
the inclosed matter sufficient to serve your purposes, I 
am, my dear sir. Your obd't servant, 

“Roual Bollossy.” 


“My Dear Mr. Hurst: 1 have reached the desired 
point and find Madam La Princess more than willing to 
drive with me — quite at my disposal indeed. I wait your 
instructions. M. P. " 


These three letters Roger Drexel read, one after the 
other, sitting alone long after midnight in his down 
town “den.” 


A COUNCIL OF THREE 


225 


The first with its accompanying commentary evidence, 
seemed quite to his liking. He smiled over some of the 
“reports,” and murmured as he laid them aside: 

“I think they will carry me through. Heavens! what 
a wonderful system the Frenchmen have. If only ours 
was as complete and as rigid.” 

The second letter he laid aside without more than a 
glance at the “notes ’ inclosed. 

“That must wait a little,” he said. “One at a time.” 

After reading Madeline’s brief note, he took up his 
pen and wrote: 

“My Kind Helper: 1 shall see Madam La Princess to 
morrow at two p. m. ; will you kindly engage her com- 
pany for the next hour. Have her out of the hotel by 
half past three, and keep her safely away for at least an 
hour — longer if possible. . Yours gratefully, 

“Hurst. “ 

“That must go as early as possible,” he said to him- 
self, and therefore a moment was lost in thought, evi- 
dently too serious to be reverie. As the result of this 
thinking, he penned another letter: 

“My Dear Hosmer: Glad to hear that you are almost 
^as good as new’ once more. Those rascally Huns did 
you mischief enough, and got off too easy. Since you 
seem as ready for the fray as ever, I will give you 
another commission, if only to keep you out of mischief. 
I have got on amazingly with your friend, the worker in 
wood, and you were right in your surmises. There 
is some fact in connection with his second advent into 
the union that is a sore spot to him. He had a reason 
in urging you not to join. It may be worth our while 
to learn what it was. Another thing; he has a dread of 
a new phase of affairs, and is full of apprehension. 
His anxiety is almost greater than the cause he ascribes 
Moina — /5 


226 


MOINyl 


it to. I wish you would look him up, and keep track of 
him. Don^t pump him or seem over anxious. Only 
keep him in evidence, in case of need. He lives at No. 
76 Short street, a very humble cottage in a humble 
locality, and his full name is Joseph Parker. You won’t 
be likely to see me for a few days. Don’t be too con- 
spicuous at Ohm’s, and don’t neglect Parker. 

"Yours in good faith, 

"Roger. " 

When this was finished, he lighted a cigar and settled 
himself in a more comfortable chair, like one who in- 
tends to make a long sitting. 

"I shall, hardly see my bed to-night,” he said, pulling 
the foreign letters toward him and taking up the first 
paper contained in the Paris report. "No sleep for me 
until I have mastered all these. I am entering the laby- 
rinth with even less of a clue than was Ariadne’s 
thread.” 


While Roger Drexel was thus occupied, a group of 
three men, sitting about a round table in a small room 
not far away, were, like him, "perverting the uses of the 
night. ” 

The first of them was Rufus Crashaw; the second op- 
posite him, his shadow, Passauf; and the third, a large 
man, with a decidedly military air. 

Crashaw had just been reading aloud a hastily written 
and somewhat garbled account of the murder of the 
night before. 

"It’s unfortunate,” said this military man after a mo- 
ment of silence; "unfortunate altogether. And 3^et is 
any. one to blame?” 

"To blame? Well that’s as you think. We ought to 
have been better informed. To think that the man has 


A COUNCIL OF THREE 


227 


been out of the city neary two weeks. ” This from 
Crashaw. • 

‘‘You forget,” interposed Passauf in his monotone 
voice; ‘‘it was not safe to reconnoiter over-much, since the 
explosion. There is every reason to suppose that the 
house would be watched.” 

‘‘In my opinion,” said the first speaker, ‘‘it has been 
unusual cunning displayed from the beginning. If Mr. 
Lord left his fine mansion so quietly that no one was 
aware of it, outside of his immediate household, and if 
the fact of his absence has remained unknown for two 
weeks, it is because there is a deliberate plot to hood- 
wink some one.” 

“Well,” growled Crashaw, ‘‘it succeeded.” 

‘‘Yes, it succeeded. Now, let me call your attention 
to two or three facts. Although that paper speaks several 
times of the man’s absence ‘on account of ill-health,’ 
it does not once name or hint at his locality. Although 
Harvey — is not that the name? — was killed sleeping in 
his master’s bed, and it’s rather unusual for servants to 
occupy the apartments of their masters, no mention is 
made of the fact.” 

Passauf glanced down at the paper. 

“True,” he said. ‘‘It says, ‘struck while asleep,’ and 
‘assassinated in his bed;’ even so. Then, although the 
weapon was unusual enough to be worthy of comment, it 
is merely spoken of as ‘a knife’ or ‘the deadly weapon; ’ 
and they are careful not to hint at so much as a motive, 
possible or probable.” 

“Well,” said Crashaw curtly, ‘‘what do you make out of 
all this?” 

“Simply that we have some one other than the man Lord 
to deal with. This person does not play with his cards 
on the table, any more than ourselves. Ergo, we will 
do well to be on our guard.” 


228 


MOINA 


“Bah!" said Crashaw. “We are beyond reach, in any 
cafPfe, even if — " 

“Even if our agent is discovered, which is not very 
likely to happen. Don’t be too confident; the man 
Lord has had repeated warnings, not to mention 
being nearly blown up. Rest assured the mind that 
framed that non-committal report of last night’s 
affair saw the truth of it, and knows that knife was 
meant for the master. To trace the instigators, with 
all the data they must have, to us, that is to the leaders 
of the Revolutionists, is but a step. And they — " 

“There is but one leader," said Crashaw with a sar- 
donic grin, "and that is neither you nor I nor Passauf." 

“Crashaw, don’t flatter yourself. You are a capital 
diplomatist, but I shall not rest until I know who is 
looking into this thing. If it is the city police, I shall 
not be anxious. We know their methods. If it should 
be, say, a private detective — " 

"Well?" 

“I should make it the object of my life to identify 
him," said the military man with a sardonic smile. 

"Precisely. Next, no further effort must be made at 
present to reach this man with forty lives. There must 
not even be a spy allowed near the premises." 

"Then there is La Croix." 

“I could not forget that; why, when Passauf and I 
accompanied him home, after that long and fiery harangue 
of yours, I thought the old man was preparing to declare 
himself out of the game. He was excited beyond any- 
thing I ever saw. He would commit himself to nothing, 
and forbade — forbade us, mind you, to act in any way 
without his orders." Again that silent chuckle. "Then 
came his sickness, and his wonderful transformation — 
Doctor, you are a man of science; how do you explain 
it?" 


A COUNCIL OF THREE 


229 


“These sudden and entire moral revulsions happen 
oftener than is supposed," said Lugas. “The man’s 
mental balance was at best not of the strongest; he is 
old and in ill-health. His enthusiasm for ‘The Cause’ 
drew him one way, while his humanity and his scruples 
pulled another. Our lively argument wrought upon him 
^trongly; he went away greatly excited and fever ensued. 
What is called conscience is killed in, many ways. The 
man of scruples, the idealist succumbed with the fever, 
and in his place arose a fanatic, a man of one idea; the 
gray matter of the brain had undergone a change.” 

“A change indeed! Where we once had to deal with the 
‘Idealist,’ we have now a ‘Chief’ after m}^ own heart. 
We have only to suggest, and he adopts the idea as his 
own, and issues his orders. Life and property are as 
one to him now — eh, Passauf?" 

Passauf nodded. 

‘Look out,” cautioned Dr. Lugas. “In his condition 
most things must be as you suggested. He will not be 
apt to originate much in the way of ideas. But beware 
if he seizes upon some notion from another source, and 
in opposition to your wishes. There will be no obsti- 
nacy like his, then." 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


FERNAND MAKOFSKI LATE OF IRKUTSK ^ 

The La Croix, father and daughter, were at break- 
fast. The meal was almost finished when Margot en- 
tered and laid a card beside her master’s plate. He 
took it up and read thereon: 

"Fernand Makofski. " 

Underneath this name were penciled these words, 
"Late of Irkutsk.” He started at sight of the name, 
frowned, and seemed trying to remember something. 

"Fernand Makofski,” he repeated slowly aloud. And 
then after another moment of reflection, he said : "Show 
him here, Margot.” He did not glance at Moina; he 
seemed to have forgotten her presence. A month ago she 
would have left the room, or asked his leave to stay. Now 
she did neither; she remained in her place, silent and 
seemingly as absent as himself. 

Fernand Makofski was a man of goodly proportions, 
well-dressed and not ill-looking. His hair to be sure was 
dangerously near to that shade commonly called red, 
and his short bristling beard and bushy mustache were 
only a shade paler. He advanced easily, bowing low to 
Moina, and said in excellent and but slightly accented 
English: 

"I had hoped that my name might be familiar, sir, al- 
though I personally am strange. The name of Miles 
La Croix has been known and honored by me for years. ” 

"Your name haunts me,” said his host. "It almost 
230 


FERNAND MAKOFSKI LATE OF IRKUTSK 


231 


seems that I have known you. But you must pardon me; 
I am an old man and have been ill, very ill. And — ^ 
Irkutsk, you say. I have never been in Irkutsk." 

"Then I congratulate you," said the other bitterly. 
"Irkutsk has no pleasant memories for a political person. " 

"Ha — what is that? a political — you are not — are you 
that Makofski, that officer, who was imprisoned." He 
stopped as if at a loss. 

"That Fernand Makofski who was arrested and con- 
demned as a revolutionist soon after the assassination 
of the czar, and who was as innocent of participation 
in that deed as yourself, sir? Yes, I am that man." 

Instantly Miles La Croix’ hand was extended. 

"You are very welcome here, sir," he said with a 
cordiality that surprised Moina. And then for the first 
time he seemed to remember her. 

"Allow me to present my daughter," he said gracious- 
ly. "She is as much a friend to the good cause as I am 
myself. You can speak freely before her, sir. Pray be 
seated, and tell us how you chance to be in America." 

The visitor seated himself, and after seeming to hesi- 
tate a moment said: 

"I will be perfectly frank with you, sir. Of course, 
you must know that I am a refugee." 

"What! you have escaped?" 

"Yes, so I dared not present myself here,” he went on; 
"rather, I had not the right to do it, until I had taken 
time to assure myself that I had not been followed. I 
did not care to bring a spy to your door.” 

"And,” said La Croix, "do I understand that you have 
no mission here?" 

"None at present. What I may or may not do, after a 
time, depends upon my success baffling my pursuers." 

"Is your emeny so dangerous that _he is more acute 
than you, or I, or others?” 


232 


MOINA 


"He! Ah, if it were only a he. But the hunter is a 
woman. " 

"A woman! " 

"Yes. A Russian lady of rank, skillful, dangerous, 
with any number of spies and agents at her command. 
I am not the only prey she seeks. She has another 
mission." 

"Do you know her name?" 

"Unfortunately, no. But I expect to learn it." 

"And have you chosen your new place of abode?” 

"Alas, no! I dread to think of it. After years of 
isolation, to go into voluntary exile seems hard ; doubly 
so since I have found a congenial companion — a comrade. ” 

"Well said; a comrade." He got up and locked the 
door. "Draw your chair nearer," he continued, resuming 
his own. "Let me tell you something of our work here, 
and then let me make you a proposition." 

"With my all my heart," said Fernand Makofski. 


An hour later La Croix rang for Margot and when she 
appeared he sent for Moina. 

"My daugther," he said, "you have heard Captain 
Makofski^ s story, and you know that for the present 
his safety lies in seclusion. The captain is one of us. 
I cannot permit him to go among strangers where, per- 
haps, there may be spies in the next room. He has 
consented, for a time at least, to make his retreat with 
us. We have room and to spare. You will see that the 
apartment next to mine is made ready for him. He will 
come to us at once." 

"Yes, papa.” Moina^s face gave no sign of her in- 
ward perturbations, her surprise and dismay. 

"Captain Makofski need not be entirely secluded here. 
He is something of an artist, and to the world in general 
will pass as my pupil. As for our few intimate friends. 


FERNAND MAKQFSKI LATE OF IRKUTSK 


233 


he can trust them as us. In naming him before the serv- 
ants, you are to call him Captain Fernand. The name 
Makofski will only be used among ourselves.” 

'T understand.” 

Miles La Croix smiled upon her as she went out. He 
looked eager and animated. His guest filled all his 
thoughts. He had not seemed so genial in many days. 

"One thing occurs to me,” he said thoughtfully, and 
scanning the captain slowly from head to foot. “You 
are rather a striking personage. Would it not be well 
for you to assume — ah — some sort of disguise, at least 
to shave or change the fashion of your beard.” 

Captain Makofski strode to the door and locked it, in 
his turn. 

“I am going to burn my last bridge,” he said, coming 
back and standing opposite his host. “I am going to 
put myself absolutely at your mercy. I owe you that con- 
fidence in return for your kindness. I am already dis- 
guised. You have not asked for proofs of my sojourn in 
Siberia, but I offer them to you. See!” 

He put his hand up and removed first the thick beard 
and mustache, and then the wig of red-brown hair. 

Miles La Croix gazed into a fine, firm featured face, 
clean-shaven, handsome and strong. On one side of the 
head, the hair was thick and little more than an inch 
long; on the opposite side there was just an infinitesimal 
growth of down. 

“In Siberia,” said the captain, with bitterness in face' 
and voice, “they make us hideous as well as wretched; 
they shave our heads on one side. You see Fernand 
Makofski is not likely to show his true self, until this 
mark of infamy has had time to erase itself.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


A DETECTIVE “pRICE" 

While Captain Fernand Makofski was bowing before 
the La Croix, Madeline Payne tapped lightly at the 
door of Princess Sacha's salon and was promptly admit- 
ted by the maid. 

"Madam is breakfasting in her dressing-room," said 
the woman. "If mademoiselle will please to enter, and 
be seated — ” and she wheeled an easy-chair toward the 
fire-place where a light wood flame was glowing. 

"A fire! ’’ exclaimed Madeline smilingly, "and on such 
a morning as this." She drew the chair further from 
the blaze and seated herself. "Do not trouble madam," 
she said sarcastically. "Let her finish her breakfast 
without interruption. I am not in haste." 

Sacha appeared in her floating morning robe of white 
and gold, and as the two stood together exchanging 
greetings, they framed a lovely picture, a contrast to de- 
light the eye of a colorist: the one petite and brunette, 
the other fair and stately. 

In spite of her faith in Roger Drexel, and in his rea- 
sons, known and unknown, for subjecting Sacha Orloff to 
surveillance, Madeline felt herself intuitivel}^ and 
strangely drawn toward the little Russian. 

Two beautiful women, royally clad, luxuriously sur- 
rounded, both rich, both free and the world before them: 
Something like this flashed through Madeline’ s mind as, 
turning to resume her seat, she caught the reflection of 
their figures in a long mirror, "and yet — " she said to 
herself, "we are both spies!" 

234 


A DETECTIVE ^^PRICE" 


235 


When Roger Drexel presented himself before the Prin- 
cess Sacha, he found her alone and evidently awaiting 
his coming. She was dressed for her drive with Mad- 
eline, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowing with 
excitement. 

"Oh! ’’ she exclaimed, springing up as he appeared 
beneath the silken portiere, and coming swiftly toward 
him. "Oh, my friend, so, at last you condescend to 
appear in person! Something must have happened, some 
thing important, else I should have received another of 
those brief notes you chose to call reports. Do you 
know I more than half believe you have purposely avoid- 
ed coming here?” 

"Let me say," he remarked, "that I think I have found 
a clue. I hope to succeed.” 

"Ah! Tell me — ” she began. 

"Madam, you must be perfectly frank with me. You 
said at our first meeting that you desired the services of 
one who was, in no sense of the word, a revolutionist. 

She started and paled, but her voice was calm and 
self -controlled. 

"True, I gave my reasons,” she said. 

"And very plausible ones they were.* Now hear what 
I have discovered. And, if you wish me to continue in 
your service, be quite frank. It is necessary. First — 
at the time of his disappearance from Russia and Eu- 
rope, Basil Petralowski was an active nihilist. Do not 
take the trouble to contradict me; I have left no room 
for doubt on this point. Now let me repeat a former 
question, parried by you when asked. Have you reason 
to suspect that he was ‘removed’ by private influence?” 

She was very pale now, but her eyes flashed back upon 
his. 

"Reasons? we do not always need reasons, we women. 
We have intuitions, instincts.” 


236 


MOIN^ 


"Then you do not think he was spirited away, for po- 
litical causes, by the emissaries of the czar?" 

"I will tell you what I think," she said, with sudden 
fierce frankness. The means may have been public, the 
secret police perhaps; the end sought was private ven- 
geance. " 

"Ah, now we are getting on. Continue to be fiank, 
madam. To come to America, as you wished to come, 
unchallenged, unquestioned, you needed a pretext. I will 
not ask if, previous to the disappearance of this 
man, you took any part in Russian political affairs. I 
simply ask if, when you determined to come to Amer- 
ica, you did not decide to serve as the agent, perhaps, 
of the government?" 

She sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing. "Monsieur, 
this is too much! This is insolence!” 

He arose also. "As you will,” he said coldly. "At 
least you shall understand me. I know whereof I speak. 

I am prepared to support my statements. Such knowl- 
edge as I possess is certain. You are here on a mission 
totally unconnected with the search of Basil Petralowski. 
But I will be quite frank with you. Although sure of 
this much, I do nbt know whether you are acting with 
the revolutionists or for the Russian government." 

"Ah!" and sank back into her seat again. "Then un- 
doubetdly you intend to make yourself sure on that 
point. " 

"Madam, I expect to get all further information I re- 
quire from you.” 

"From me! You are bold!" 

"Let us have done with this." 

He in turn resumed his seat. 

"I am not hunting you, madam. 1 am not anxious as 
to your mission, except in so far as it may enable you to 
do me a service for that which I intend to render you. 


A DETECTIVE ^^PRICE 


237 


First, I am to find for you Basil Petralowski, or the 
truth concerning him. ” 

"And then — ?’’ 

"I shall ask a service of you. I ask now for your 
promise. When my part is done and you know all, I 
shall ask you to do this thing for me. Do you agree?" 

"Bring Mr. Basil Petralowski, if he is alive, or the whole 
truth as to his fate if he is dead, and I promise, I swear, 
to render you any service that is within my power; here 
is my hand.” 

"You will not see me again until my task is done, and 
I am come to claim your reward. One thing makes my 
progress difficult,” he said. 

"What thing?” 

"The lack of any picture by which to identify." 

"Ah, how I wish I had one, even the poorest ; " her 
face had softened, and there were tears in her voice. 

As he emerged from the apartments of Princess Sacha 
and walked slowly down the corridor, he passed an open 
door, and, an instant later, heard a voice close behind 
him, a voice he recognized at once. 

"Stop, sir." 

He turned quickly and confronted Madeline. There 
was no shadow of recognition upon either face, only a 
slight surprise on his. 

"Pardon me, sir; this paper fell from your pocket, I 
think. ” 

She thrust a small, folded paper into his hand and 
turned quickly away. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


BEGINNING TO BURN 

Madeline’s sudden appearance in the corridor was a 
surprise to Drexel; but he knew instinctively that it had 
a meaning. Not a sign of recognition had passed be- 
tween them ; and thrusting the note into his pocket, he 
went on and entered the smoking-room, meaning to wait 
there, according to his original intention, until Made- 
line and Princess Sacha had left upon their drive. Seat- 
ing himself carelessly, and a little aloof from the other 
loungers, he took the little note from his pocket and 
read it. 

'T have discovered this morning," it said, "that the 
writer of the two letters of warning sent to Mr. Lord, 
was in all likelihood, Madam La Princess. I have found 
in her waste basket the blotter used when the first of 
the letters was written. Both blotter and letters are at 
3- our service." 

That was ail, and Roger Drexel twisted it into a lighter 
and going to the little bronze lamp always alight for 
the use of smokers, he coolly thrust it into the tiny flame, 
lighted a cigar with it, and watched it burn into ashes 
in his fingers. 

"Bravo!" he said to himself, as he resumed his seat. 
"Miss Payne is a woman in a thousand. We are be- 
ginning to burn." 

Half an hour later, he saw, through the open window, 
the departure of Madeline and the princess, both look- 

238 


BEGINNING TO BORN 


239 


ing as high-bred, beautiful and care-free as if no such 
word as anxiety were known to their vocabulary. Ten 
minutes more and he was again applying for admittance 
at the Princess Sacha’s door. 

‘T wish to see madam, the Princess Orloff,” he said 
to the maid who opened it 

“Madam, the princess, has gone out, monsieur." 

"Not the Princess Orloff, the mother of madam?" 

"Oh, no!" There was a note of surprise in the maid’s 
answer. "Enter, monsieur; I will see if madam, the 
princess will receive you." 

"Say to her," he said easily, "that it is simply to leave 
a message forgotten before. I will not detain her." 

There was hardly a moment of waiting, and the elder 
Princess Orloff, entered the room. She was very pale 
and seemed agitated. He thought that she even looked 
more wan and pale than when he had seen her first. 
Drexel advanced to meet her and drew toward her an 
easy-chair with a respectful deference quite unlike his 
cold and dignified bearing in the presence of the Prin- 
cess Sacha. She sank into the proffered seat and looked 
anxiously into his face. 

"You wished to speak with me, monsieur?" she said 
deprecatingly. 

"Yes, madam. And what I have to say need not agi- 
tate you. I am seeking to serve you. Madam, I wish 
to be perfectly frank with you. You know the nature 
of my business with the Princess Sacha Orloff?" 

"Yes." She was too much agitated to display any sur- 
prise that he spoke thus of one who was recognized as 
her daughter, and he noted this. 

"Then you must know that in my capacity as detective, 

I must study closely and am likely to -discover many 
things." 

"Yes," she whispered again. 


240 


MOIhJA 


“Madam, I beg of you not to be startled oralarmed. I 
see that you are anxious, and not strange. Believe me, 
my sympathy is with you. I am your friend and trying 
to serve you.” He was speaking slowly and gently. 

"But I know, I surmised from the first, that you are 
not the mother of the Princess Sacha; that you are, in 
fact, that kind foster-mother of whom she has spoken so 
gratefully, so tenderly. You are — the mother of Basil 
Petralowski! ” 

She grew still paler. She was pitifully agitated. Her 
lips moved mechanically but no sound came from them. 

"I can understand your anxiety,” he went on, still 
very gently, "and cannot question your methods. In as- 
suming the position of the mother of the Princess Sacha 
Orloff, you have done her a service, and made her posi- 
tion here, as well as your own, secure beyond question. 
I ask your help, for such aid as you can perhaps give 
in your own service.” 

"Ah,” she sighed, "I do not understand." 

"But you shall. In my search for your son, I am 
hampered by the lack of any picture of him that might 
so readily lead to his identification. I know a mother^ s 
heart, and I have wondered if — if it might not be that, 
out of your loss and wreck, you had preserved some like 
ness, the only one porhaps, hoarding it lest you be be- 
reft of it, keeping the fact of its possession a secret, 
maybe, even from the princess, who might have had 
the courage to give it up, if she thought it necessary to 
our success.” 

He paused. She had both her hands to her face and 
was sobbing wildly. 

He got up and walked about the room, giving her 
time to recover herself. When the sobbing became less 
violent he came back and stood by her side. 

"I do not wish to take it from you,” he said softly. 


BEGINNING TO BURN 


341 


"If you will let me see it, just for a moment I ask 
no more. My memory is good, and I will keep your 
secret. You must say nothing of my return to the prin- 
cess and then I need not explain to her why I came. One 
sight of the picture, remember, may help me." He 
hesitated and almost faltered over these words — "may 
help — to find — your son." 

She lifted her tear-stained face. "You are very good. 
And — I could not give it up. It was all that I had left 
of him, my only boy. And if Sacha had known — " 

"I understand. You could not have possessed it alone. 
But now time passes. Show me the picture, dear ma- 
dame, and trust me. Can you trust your maid as well?" 

"Jeane is devoted to me," she said rising and going 
slowly toward a curtained door. Then, turning back 
with piteously quivering lips: "You will not take it 
from me?" 

"No; I swear it." 

.She was gone but a moment, but in that moment her 
manner had changed. She seemed eager and excited 
now. Tears shone in her eyes. 

"We must be quick, " she whispered. "If she should come 
back — she must not see it. It would never be all mine 
again and — it is mine by right. I am his mother." 

She held a velvet case in her hands. This she opened 
with a reverent, tender touch, and after one long pathet- 
ic look, she held it out to him with quivering lips. 

"That is Basil," she said softly. 

He took it from her hand and bent over it. The 
pictured face was a handsome one, with its spirited 
poise of head, its regular features, smooth but for a 
slight mustache; its close cropped, curling hair, and 
fine dark eyes. It was a long minute before Drexel 
removed his gaze and lifted his head. And then he did 
not meet her questioning gaze. 

Moina — 1 6 


242 


MOlN/i 


He closed the case with a touch almost as reverent as 
her own, and put it back into her hand. He took her 
hands in his. "Dear madame, I hope to be able to 
bring you some news soon, I trust it ma}'^ — " He 
broke off abruptly and turned his eyes away. "I must 
not be here when the princess returns," he said hurriedly. 
"And you — you are agitated. You must have time to 
compose your self. This meeting is our secret, madame. 
I thank you very much for your trust in me. You shall 
find that it has not been misplaced.” When he was out- 
side he said to himself: "If I had stayed there a mo- 
ment longer I should have blundered — have shown my 
feelings too plainly. Poor woman! Poor mother! and 
she has only helped me, shown me the way, to break her 
poor, frail heart." 


CHAPTER XL 


A LITTLE DETECTIVE 


‘Hullo!" 

"’Lo!” 

The salutation was cheerily uttered, and evidently in- 
tended to be ingratiating. The reply was indifferent, not 
to say sullen. The first speaker stood with hands in 
pockets, and shabby hat cocked sideways — the very pict- 
ure of a street Arab — upon the dirty pavement directly 
before the second, who sat upon the door-step at the 
shabby entrance of a tumble-down, frame tenement house. 

"Yes." 

"D-ye ever see a tall man with big whiskers and a red 
nose round here?" 

"No; why?" 

Cause, he got me to do a job for him and he paid me 
well, and said he’d want me again to-day and he’d meet 
me at the corner yonder; but he warn’t theie. He told 
me to kind ’o hang round here; he might need me more 
than once, and he’s good pay." 

The next day as the boy sat as before alone upon the 
step, a blithe voice hailed him. 

"Hullo. Been sittin’ there ever since." 

"No." This time the visitor seated himself at once. 
"Tell yer what," he began, "I was just in luck yester- 
day. Hadn’t left yer five minits hardly before I found 
my man. " 

"Did ye?" with interest. 

243 


244 


MOlhIA 


“You bet, and I’ve done another good bit of payin* 
work. That’s the kind of biz for me; no more sellin’ 
newspapers. No more carryin’ parcels, for Johnny Dee- 
gan, that’s my name; now what’s yourn? ” 

“Hans,” said the other; “Hans Kressler. “ Then he 
started and looked involuntarily over his shoulder. John- 
ny Deegan seeming not to have heard, took from his 
pocket a small paper containing some highly colored, 
strongly flavored sweets and proffered it to Hans. 

“It’s my treat," he explained. “When a feller gets a 
good job like that, he can afford a little blow-out.” 

“Did you earn much,” asked Hans, with his mouth full 
of candy. 

“Huh!” Johnny jingled some coins in his pocket, and 
then produced a handful of change. 

“Feast yer eyes on that,” he said; “and it ain’t all 
neither. An’ what’s more there’s a show for along job, 
good pay and grub along with it. Tain’t sure, but the 
cove said he might need two or three smart boys, and 
for me to be around handy in case he wanted me.” He 
proffered the candy once more, and abruptly changed the 
subject. His quick eye had noticed the gleam in the 
face of Hans at the mention of “pay and grub.” 

“You see,” he said — when two or three games of marbles 
had been played and all the candy eaten — “ye see, I ain’t 
like you, I ain’t got no fambly to bother about, and kin 
do as I like. I’ve found a good place to bunk, and as 
long’s my chink holds out, I kin eat where I like. Is yer 
granny good to yer?” 

“Sometimes,” said Hans gloomily. , 

As the week wore away, Hans on the door-step found 
himself looking more and more anxiously for the coming 
of Johnny Deegan. 

For a few days Johnny was full of cordiality and lib- 
eral with his marbles and sweets. 


A LITTLE DETECTIl^E 


345 


One day Johnny arrived earlier than usual, seeming 
much elated. 

"Well," he said jauntily, "weMl have one more game 
for luck. I’m going to change my hotel to-morrer. I’ve 
got the job, and it’s a good one, I tell ye.” 

"What are you going to do?" faltered Hans. 

Johnny leered at him, knowingly. "Look here, sonny," 
he said; "ye mustn’t arsk questions. Tain’t no common 
biz, let me tell you. Yer a good sort o’ chap, and I’d like 
to tell yer jest to see yer eyes bung out. But no; ye’d 
tell yer gran. ’Twouldn’t do; besides, I haven’t got 
time. I’ll play ye jest one game, and then I’m off. I’ve 
got to find another feller to work with me, and I don’t 
know jest where ter get the one I want." 

Hans looked up, about, and behind himself, and then 
came close to Johnny. 

"Hush,” he said; "don’t let gran hear you. How 
would I do?" 

"Look here, " said Johnny seriously, "ain’t you joking?" 

"No; I mean it— every word." 

"But this ain’t no common work, I tell ye. I like ye 
first-rate, if ye do look mighty babyish a settin’ on them 
old door-steps, an’ I’m sorry fer ye, but — " here he sud- 
denly struck his hands together as if startled by some 
new thought. 

"No, Hans; tain’t no use. I can’t do it. And I’ll 
tell you why: I hadn’t orter, but I want ye to know 
why I had to go back on yer. Only ye must promise 
hope to die, ye won’t never breathe it.” 

"I promise," whispered Hans eagerly; "Hope to die 
if Ido." 

"Hans did you ever hear of the ‘Banded Brothers?’" 

"Do you mean the knights?" 

"Naw; them’s men, growed up. The Banded Broth- 
ers is all boys like me, and we’re bound to help each 


246 


MOINA 


Other, and to fight our oppressors and avenge one 
another’s wrongs, jest the same as the knights does. 
And we’re down on the money-kings and we sympa 
thizes with the strikers, an’ help ’em all we can. Well, 
Hans, I’m one of the Banded Brothers, an’ it’s my duty 
to help my brothers. If you was one of us ’t would be all 
right. I wish you could join us. But then there’s your 
gran. ’Twouldn’t do. An’ don’t ye see, Hans, I ort 
to go and give this nice fat job I’ve found, fer me and 
another boy, to one of the Banded Brothers?” 

Wiser and older heads than that of Hans have been 
turned by the sophistry of the tempter. Hans was 
quivering with excitement. His eager little face was 
thrust up close to Johnny’s, the red dyeing his sallow 
cheeks. 

"Don’t yer never tell,” he whispered hastily. “You 
won’t, will you?” 

"Me! The Banded Brothers never peaches, Hans.” 

‘‘Well, then I’m a knight.” 

Johnny started back, assuming a dramatic attitude. 

"I am. My uncle, gran’s only boy, got killed in one 
of the big strikes, and she’s hated the bloated austeracy 
ever since, and taught me to. She won’t let me work 
for them, nor be helped by them. We’re socialists.” 

"Phew.” 

"And I’ve done— well, I guess if I told you what I’d 
done, you’d say I was fit to be a Banded Brother.” 

“Done! you? Such a little feller! You couldn’t do 
much.” 

“That’s it. It’s just because I’m little that I could 
help. A man couldn’t have done what I did. You 
couldn’t have done it.” 

“Oh, come now; what’ re you givin’ us!” 

"It’s true. You’re too big. I’m a knight, I am, I 
tell you. Say you’ll take me! Say you will. ” 


A LITTLE DETECTIVE 


247 


"Look a-here, sonny," said Johnny, with the air of one 
being impressed against his better judgment, "Pm go- 
ing to tell you the square truth, now. And if ye ever 
give me away Pll come down on ye with the hull gang 
of Banded Brothers, and we’ll jest about clean ye out. 
Hear?” 

"Oh, I won’t tell; I won’t!” 

"This is jest how it stands. If I say the word you git 
the job. My boss, he says to me likN^ this: ‘Johnny, 
you ought to know another boy of your own sort, and 
if you do I want you to bring him to me. I’ll pay you 
alike and you’ll sleep and work together’ — see?” 

"Oh, yes. Yes!" 

"Now, here’s the sticker. You can’t imagine what 
you’d have to do. Come closer; let me whisper. Don’t 
see any cops around, do ye?” 

Hans jumped up the step and looked scared. 

"Pshaw,” said Johnny, "you’re too nervous.” 

"Listen, my first job I had to watv:h a house all day 
’thout any dinner. An’ my next, I had to follow a feller 
half over town and not let him see me nor ’spect me, 
nother. An’ my boss said” — here he put his mouth close 
to Hans’ ear — "he said we might have to get into some- 
body’s house, and not be caught at it. There!” 

Johnny drew back and seemed waiting for his effect. 
Much to his apparent surprise, Hans laughed; his face 
lighted up, he looked proud and confident. 

"Why,” he said with fine scorn, "that’s nothing. I 
can do that too, slick. I have done it for the knights. 
That’s why they made me one.” 

An hour later Johnny Deegan and the tall man with the 
blonde beard were closeted together in the little humble 
room which Johnny had occupied mor-j or less since he 
had ceased to be a boot-black. 


248 


MOINA 


"Tve got him,” said the boy — ’’got him dead to rights! 
I said everything to him that you told me to, and he 
jest tumbled.” And Johnny dramatized, for the benefit 
of his patron, the scene between himself and little Hans. 
“It ’pears,” he said in conclusion, “that his granny is 
always a twittin’ him with bein’ good-for-nothin’, and 
has been a trainin’ him to be a regular roarin’ striker and 
annikrist. And Hans says that sometimes she says things 
that makes him think that she ain’t his real granny any* 
how. He’s awful afraid of her, and the old man too. But 
he’s been achin’ to run away, this ever so long.” 

“You have done well, Johnny, ” said his patron. “You 
will bring the boy here to-night, and to-morrow I will 
provide you with quarters in another part of the city. 
We can keep the boy quiet for awhile through his fear 
of being found by his grandmother, or the old Jew.” 

“Why, ain’t you goin’ to put us on a job?” queried 
Johnny. 

“My boy, you have already done a very good job. 
And I am going to trust you now with a great secret. I 
am going to make a little detective of you. You said, 
you know, that you wanted to be a detective.” 

“Gosh!” cried the delighted boy. 

“And your first ‘job’ will be to take good care of this 
boy Hans for me; to make him attached to you, and not 
let him out of your sight until further orders. If you 
succeed in this you will go into regular service. You shall 
never black another boot." 

Johnny fairly danced with delight. 

“Tell me what to do,” he cried. “I’ll do it; you bet 
I’ll do it.” 




CHAPTER XLI 


HOSMER AT WORK 

Number 29 Short Street was indeed an humble 
abode — a cottage, small and old, but neat and orderly 
without and within. Kenneth Hosmer was dressed 
like a workingman out for a holiday, clean and trim. 
He touched his hat, as he met the woman's inquiring 
gaze, and his frank, handsome face spoke loudly in his 
favor. 

"Is your husband at home, madam?" he asked. 

She gave him a long, slow look, before she answered. 

"No, sir; he ain't at home just now, but he'll be here 
soon. Did you want to see him particular?" There 
was a note of anxiety in her voice — a question in her 
tired, anxious eyes. 

"I — well, not very particular. I had promised to come 
and see him, and as I had time to-day— but of course 
I can come again." He made a movement as if to turn 
away. 

"Excuse me," she said hastily; "won't you please tell 
me your name?" 

"Yes’m, certainly." He gave the name by which he 
had introduced himself to Joseph Parker, and her coun- 
tenance changed instantly. 

It was as if she felt relief at his coming. 

He saw it and it caused him to wonder. 

"Won't you come in, sir?" — she swung the door wide. 
"It's high time that Joseph was here." I feel anxious 
when he's out long, now. He's got something on his 

349 


250 


MOINA 


mind, and — I may as well out with it; like as not you 
know of it anyhow — Joseph drinks a bit sometimes. 
Oh!" seeing his look of surprise, "not to spree, or the 
like of that, but when he’s worried, then he takes a glass 
and it makes him — queer." 

She stopped and continued to gaze at him wistfully. 
The young masquerader was actually embarrassed. 

"I’m very sorry," he said, and there was genuine sym- 
pathy in his voice. He did not dream what a whole- 
some, confidence-winning fellow he looked in his tidy 
workman’s clothes. Suddenly she drew her chair closer 
to him and lowered her voice. 

"I’m going to be over bold, sir," she said hurriedly. 
"But you look kind and — and honest." Kenneth winced. 
"I’m going to ask you not to drink with Joseph to-day 
if he asks 5^ou, and to keep him from it if you can. 
And there’s something else: We’ve seen hard times, 
Joseph and me. He belonged to the union and then left 
it. Everything went against us, and about a year ago he 
joined again. But, somehow, he’s out of conceit with 
the unions, and to-day he has been declaring that he 
would quit the union if we all starved in a batch." 

"Has anything happened to make him dissatisfied 
again?" asked Kenneth with sudden interest. "Pardon 
me, but your husband has told me something of his 
experience with the unions." 

"Well, I suppose there must something struck him 
wrong. You see he reads the newspapers a good deal, 
and always looks up everything about strikes and boy- 
cotts and the like. And sometimes he rages fit to scare 
you, about some of their foolishness, as he calls it. 
Yesterday he was reading the 'Morning Echo,’ and all 
at once down goes the paper, and up jumps Joseph. He 
gives the paper a kick out of the way and begins to 
walk up and down, and he did look enough to scare a 




MOWA 


%Vl 

person. Then out he breaks, a-swearing and calling 
somebody hounds and bloody villains and such like. 
And then he roars out that he has done with the unions 
for good and all; starve or no starve heMl not work for 
them any more. It was awful.” 

"Did you find out what was in the paper that roused 
him so?” 

"No, and that^s the curious part of it. I took up the 
paper after he was gone, for I couldn’t get a word out 
of him, and I looked it all over. But I could’nt find 
aynthing about strikes or unions or such!” 

'T would like to see that paper.” 

"You can. He ain’t never looked at it since, and I put 
it away against he might want it. Here it is.” And 
she took from a high shelf a copy of the "Morning Echo" 
and put it in his hand. "Do you remember how the 
paper was folded when he threw it down?” 

"Just as it is now. He had only begun to read and 
hadn’t got over the first page." 

Kenneth unfolded the paper and, at almost the 
first glance, his eye rested on the following startling 
head-line: 

MURDER IN THE HOUSE OF A MILLIONAIRE. STABBED IN HIS BED 

Hosmer started and involuntarily lowered the paper, 
then lifted it again, and forced himself to scan the en- 
tire page. Beyond its long and sensational account of 
the murder of poor Harvey, there was absolutely nothing 
to rouse the ire, or even interest, in the breast of a man 
like Parker; and there was not even a paragraph con- 
cerning unions, strikes, or "such like," as Mrs. Parker 
would have said. A strange thought was taking shape 
in Kenneth’s mind as he continued to feign interest in 
a further scrutiny of the paper. 

"What do you think it was?” she asked wistfully. 


H05MER AT HOME 


253 


"I can^t tell; perhaps he happened to think of some- 
thing just then. It might not have been the paper.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it was. He had been good-natured 
enough before that, and then his words. And as quick 
as he got a dram, which was soon, he began to say more, 
and he did say such things about the unions! That’s 
why I asked you not to drink with him.” Mrs. Parker 
was getting incoherent. She had quite lost sight of the 
fact that he was a stranger. “And, sir, don’t say any- 
thing against the unions to him now. Don’t advise him 
to quit it. What would become of us? and nothing laid 
by. Oh, sir, it’s hard. And Joseph was always a good 
man, a good father to the children. If he should take 
to drink — ” 

There was a sound on the step outside. She flung 
him a last appealing glance as she hastened to replace 
the paper, and Kenneth had just time to say under his 
breath: 

"Trust me, ma’am. I try my best for you.” 

And then the door swung open and Joseph Parker was 
before them. It was evident from his manner, as well 
as from the look his wife gave him, that he had repeat- 
ed his dram. He was not so despondent as when he went 
away, but quite as full of wrath; and at just that stage 
of intoxication when talking is a delight and caution is 
thrown to the winds. 

He would not stay inside. They could talk better out 
of doors, he said. And when he had got Hosmer fairly 
outside he added: "Taint best to talk too much afore 
the women. It makes them want to argify. ” 

Hosmer smiled and then started as he remembered 
that he had dropped his dialect while talking with Mrs. 
Parker. "It’s well he got me out before I had a chance 
to go on in that strain," bethought. "It might have sur- 
prised my friend Joseph, mellow though he certainly is. ” 


254 


MOIhlA 


They had not gone far — Hosmer keeping purposely silent 
— before Parker put a brawny hand upon his shoulder. 
“Well, lad,” he said, “it’s hoping you’ve thought better 
of things since those anarchists fellers did yer sich a 
bad turn. You ain’t so fond of the s’cieties, eh!” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Them fellers were a couple of 
Huns, ye know — beastly foreigners. Ye don’t spose they 
were union men, do you?” 

“Umph! I guess ye kin find plenty of foreigners in the 
unions nowadays.” 

“But they would be turned out if they was caught do- 
ing a thing like that, wouldn’t they? Come, now, don’t 
be too hard on the unions." 

“Hard!” Joseph ground out an oath between his teeth. 
“If I had a son and I had to choose between letting him 
join one of these ere new societies and lettin’ him go 
right off and turn thief and burglar, a burglar he’d be. 
He’d be his own boss, and be doing his own dirty work 
then, not somebody else’s. ” 

“Talking about burglars,” broke in Kenneth, seizing 
the opportunity thus offered him, “did ye hear about 
that house-breaking business up on Fifth Avenue? some 
rich banker’s, I believe. Broke in an’ killed one of the 
servants. Killed him in his bed.” 

Instantly the face of the man beside him became livid. 
His hands clinched and then flung outwards in a violent 
gesture. 

“Heard it,” he cried. "Have I heard it? Ain’t I all 
the time bearin’ it? Can’t I fairly see it?” 

They were walking down a secluded street, chosen by 
Kenneth to avoid the saloons. Parker after getting away 
from his home had seemed not to care or know which 
way they went. 

“Murdered in his bed was he?” went on Joseph Parker. 
“Killed in his sleep. The poor fellow. Oh, can’t 


HOSMER AT IVORK 


255 


I see the miserable fellow at his work — look here; He 
goes around through the alleys and up to the back base- 
ment door. It is a glass door so he cuts a pane — no I 
forgot — there are two, and they get in over the transom 
first, another opens the door. Then through the little 
hall, up the big square stairs, creep, creep, turn, turn. 
Then straight on to the old man’s door, knife in one hand, 
lantern in t’other. Oh, what a house! It looked — ” He 
turned in the eagerness of his narrative, and then he 
stopped short, and the hot blood flowed into his face. 

"Well," said his companion, "go on. Ye tell it like — 
like ye had seen it yourself." 

"Me? How should I see it?" angrily. "Don’t I read 
the newspapers? aint it all there?" 

"Of course, of course it is. That’s jest my jokin’. 
But come now, honest Injun, be you really down on the 
societies? " 

‘T’m down on ’em," said Parker violently. "I’m down 
on ’em so hard that I wont never darken their doors agin 
— not if they boycott me a hundred times over — not if 
they drive me out of the country — not if they kill me." 

"My dear man — " Hosmer’s manner was very winning 
— at once confiding and confidence-inviting — "it would 
be worth something to be as well posted as you. I know 
a fellow you ought to talk to. You make me think of 
him. He’s down on the socialists, now I tell you. 
Hates ’em and he’ll work agin ’em too; yes, sir. A few 
such fellows as him and you might do something toward 
exposin’ these fellers if they’re using the societies ter 
cloak their meanness. That’s the way I’d take ter get 
even if the old unions went back on me." 

"’Umph, " grunted Parker; but it was plain that he 
was caught by the idea. "’Tain’t so easy." 

"Wait till you’ve seen my man. Per instance, ye know 
those newspaper fellers they’re alius on the look for some- 


256 


MOIN^ 


thing spicy, and they’re most on ’em down on the anar- 
chists and that lot. Now s’ pose two or three honest fel- 
lers, that know what they’re talkin’ about, jest up and tell 
what they can about the crooked doin’ s of the gang — 
no names, mind. The newspapers wouldn’t want to 
print no names, since that wouldn’t do no good and 
might do hurt. The story ’ll sell the papers without 
any names. It would help you to get even with the old 
unions, and it might be a warnin’ to some others like 
me, say. You’ve about turned me against the whole 
boodle of ’em." 

Parker had linked his hand within his companion’s 
arm. He drew closer to him. 

"Look here," he said impressively, "if I should tell 
what 1 could tell — you’ve no idea of it — it ’u’d make as 
big a stir as — as that murder." 

He spoke with an odd mixture of hesitation and bra- 
vado. You’ve no idea," he repeated musingly. 

"It might be a good thing for you,” suggested Hos- 
mer. "It would make friends of all the men that are 
agin’ the unions and the like. An’ you know there’s a lot 
of rich men turnin’ agin’ them — rich men. Some of 
’em are bandin’ themselves together and sweatin’ not to 
hire any more union men. Gosh, Parker, I wish you 
could hear that feller talk that I spoke of; he could ad- 
vise ye. I’m yer friend, of course, and I’ll do anything in 
the world for ye. I’ll stand by ye whatever comes, and 
I’ll share what little I’ve got with ye when ye want it. 
But that man’s smart. I wish ye’d tell him yer hull 
story. " 

Joseph was captured. "If I tell my affairs to any man," 
he said, "it will be to you. I hain’t known ye long, but 
I know ye’ re square. Didn’t I see ye stand up ’longside 
that policeman? I don’t know as I mind havin’ ye know 
all about it." 


HOSMER AT HOME 


257 


They moved along slowly and in silence for a few 
paces. Hosmer’s conscience was pricking him sorely. 
What was this man about to tell him? After, would it 
be of any real service to Drexel? And if not — well, at 
any rate he would not throw Parker over. He would not 
let his family want. 

He did not know all of DrexePs reasons for seeking to 
fathom the secret of Parker’s quarrel with the union. 
He knew that his friend was reaching out in many direc- 
tions for clues, but to what end? More than once he 
had asked himself this question, while never once doubt- 
ing Drexel. 

“Say,” said Joseph, “let’s go somewhere and get some- 
thing to drink.” 

Again that troublesome conscience smote Hosmer. 
He thought of Mrs. Parker and his promise to her. 
Then he glanced sideways at Joseph. He had to but 
turn about, to go with him into the nearest saloon, find 
a quiet corner where talk would be uninterrupted, and the 
secret would be his and Drexel’ s. .Would the end jus- 
tify the means? Joseph halted waiting his answer. 

“Come,” he said, and turned short around. “Pll make 
it up to her," he said to himself, “and whatever comes 
of it, I will see him through.” A moment later they 
were entering the saloon together. 

Moina — 77 


CHAPTER XLII 


I BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND 

Poor Harvey, whose life had been sacrificed to his 
master, was buried with all honor from the house where 
he has met his death. Buried like a son rather than a 
servant, and followed to the grave by Madeline and Dr. 
Vaughan; by Mrs. Ralston, the Lords and the Fallings- 
bees. 

Mr. Lord did not come to the city. When the doctor 
returned to him, on the evening that followed the awful 
discovery, he found him worse — suffering so much pain 
that any thought of movement or change was simply 
out of the question. To keep the horrible news from 
him was impossible, and when he had been told, he 
grieved and raged himself into a fever. 

“Poor Harvey!” the sick man said, between groans of 
pain. “Poor, honest, faithful fellow! A martyr in my 
stead. I shall never forgive myself for putting him in 
that cursed room. Tell Fallingsbee to do everything as 
if it were for myself. It ought to have been myself.” 

Some days later another paragraph made its appear- 
ance. 

“Mr. Elias Lord, the banker whose palatial Fifth Av- 
enue residence was the scene of the late ghastly murder, 
has returned to the city. He went to the country for 
the benefit of his health, but he now declares himself 
determined to remain here until the mystery surround- 
ing the strange taking-off of his footman is cleared up. 
He believes that he understands the motive for the 

258 


/ BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND 


259 


crime, and has a clue which will lead to the detection 
of its perpetrators. ’’ 

In both these paragraphs the initiated would doubtless 
trace the hand of Roger Drexel, alias Hurst. 

“This is how they will reason,” he said to Madeline. 
“Seeing Mr. Lord going and coming about his usual 
business, they will believe that he is thoroughly and 
systematically guarded. They will fancy any number of 
private detectives hunting them down. The fact that 
we keep our own counsel, will alarm them more than any 
apount of ventilation would have done. I think I can 
predict with tolerable certainty that, for a time, Mr. 
Lord may rest unmolested. They will not give up but 
they will postpone— they will strive to meet cunning with 
cunning.” In this, as we know, Drexel judged rightly. 

After the burial of Harvey and a final conference with 
the officers who were nominally in charge of the investi- 
gation, Drexel sought another interview with Madeline. 
It was long, and at its close he bade her adieu as if for 
an indefinite absence. “Our meetings must be few here- 
after,” he said; “when it is necessary for us to see each 
other, it will have to be after dark, and wherever the 
circumstances of the case suggests.” 


Previous to the date of his illness, Miles La Croix had 
held his most secret councils in the small apartment 
where we last saw Crashaw, Passauf, and Dr. Lugas to- 
gether. Usually these councils had been limited to 
three or four, for at first Lugas was not with them and, 
sometimes, Passauf was absent, “for the good of the 
cause.” Sometimes Savareis was present with them, 
but always by request, or permission. And now and 
then, a little, crooked, hideous man, with hands like 
talons and nose like a beak, sat in their circle. His 
presence was always prepared for in advance, and when 


260 


MOIhJA 


he came Savareis was invariably absent. But now a 
change was made; the small inner room behind the stu- 
dio in La Croix’ house was fixed upon as the permanent 
rendezvous. 

This change had taken place some days before Miles 
La Croix’ nocturnal ramble on the eve of poor Harvey’s 
death; and Captain Fernand Makofski had been three 
days an inmate of the house, and had been making rapid 
strides into the good graces of both host and hostess, 
when the time for another meeting in the little room be- 
hind the studio came around. It was, in fact, the even- 
ing of the day after Harvey’s burial. 

The arrival of Captain Makofski had seemed, at first, 
like another blow dealt her by an adverse fate. She was 
shocked at her father’s hasty act of hospitality, and 
dreaded the constant presence of a stranger among them. 
And then the foreign refugee was installed in the room 
next that of her father’s and thus placed in constant 
communication with him; she was reduced almost to 
despair. 

To sit beside her father’s bed as he fell asleep, some- 
times holding his hand, and murmuring soothing words 
to him, had become a nightly habit. He seemed always 
restless now when left alone, and this hour beside his 
bed had come to be the only one, she mournfully said 
to herself, when her presence seemed really welcome to 
him. Sometimes the hour was late,but he who had once 
been so thoughtful of her comfort seemed not to ob- 
serve this fact. He never told her nowadays not to wait 
up for him, as he had used to do upon going out, and 
he never manifested surprise or uttered a comment 
when, after parting with Crashaw and the others at 
nearly midnight, he found her waiting in his chamber or 
in the little studio opposite. 

And how was this to continue, with this big Russian 


I BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND 


261 


captain separated from her father by but a thin parti- 
tion — a single door? It was her father himself who set- 
tled the troublesome question. “I trust that you are not 
a too light sleeper,” he said at the close of their first 
evening together, "and that you are not nervous. My 
daughter has been in the habit of sitting with me in my 
room after I have retired for the night. I do not go to 
sleep readily, since my late illness, and her presence 
seems to act as a sedative; her influence is good — is 
soothing. Usually we are very quiet, but sometimes, if 
I am especially restless, we talk a little. I trust we 
shall not disturb you. The walls, I know, are not thick. ” 

Captain Fernand laughed lightly. “My kind friend,” 
he said, ‘T am a heavy sleeper, and not easily wakened. 
If in any emergency you sliould see fit to call me in the 
night, I must beg of you to do it, without hesitation, 
and without thought of my nerves. Above all, call or 
knock loudly. ” 

Moina was secretly well pleased. She had found that 
with her touch upon her father’s hand as he fell asleep 
she seemed to gain an easy control over his dormant 
senses, and when he began to murmur, as he usually did 
when asleep, she could lead his thoughts, and seldom 
failed to draw from him any information that she wished 
concerning the events of the few hours previous. It 
was a strange, sad task that she had undertaken, and bit- 
terly repugnant at times. But Moina La Croix was fast 
becoming a woman, and a woman with a heavy burden 
to bear — a desperate battle to fight. She was discovering 
within herself unknown, undreamed-of resources; she 
grew sometimes amazed at her own courage and forti- 
tude. 

Fernand Makofski was a man of tact, of intelligence, 
of wide general knowledge, and Miles La Croix found 
him a most congenial companion. Moina too, in spite of 


262 


MOIN/f 


her reluctance to receive him, her dread lest he prove 
one more obstacle in her path, was drawn toward him 
in spite of herself. With Miles La Croix he talked, 
when the lead was given him, of foreign affairs, of Rus- 
sian politics and nihilistic methods. He had been a 
traveler and could relate much that was interesting to 
both father and daughter; all of which dated back sev- 
eral years, or before his arrest and exile. He had trav- 
eled in America in his youthful days, but of this coun- 
try as it is, at present, he seemed quite ignorant. 
So matters went smoothly on until on the night of the 
meeting of the “committee," the captain found himself 
alone with Moina in the little drawing-room. 

“Papa tells me," she said after some desultory con- 
versation, “that you are aware of the reason of his ab- 
sence, or rather of his seclusion to-night?” 

“Yes, your father has honored me with his confidence. 
Miss La Croix. He does not quite look upon me as an 
outsider. " 

“I fear it might seem rather strange to you, ” she faltered. 
And then for a moment she was silent, trifling nervously 
with some dainty work which lay upon her lap. During 
the day Moina had taken a sudden, bold resolve. She 
had decided to trust this man, stranger though he was, 
who attracted her so strangely. He seemed so sympa- 
thetic, so chivalrous; she trusted him instinctively, and 
while wondering at herself. “He i*^ not one of them yet," 
she thought, “and if he cannot help me, at least he will 
not betray me. And I will not go too far — not at first.” 

The silence was growing oppressive when she sud- 
denly lifted her eyes to his face. 

“Captain Makofski, ” she said, her face flushing and 
her voice a trifle unsteady, “will you answer a question, 
and will you overlook its strangeness?” 

“By all means, Miss La Croix." 


I BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND 


263 


“You may have seen that I am singularly alone here,” 
she hurried on> “When we came to this country several 
months ago, I had not a friend here; and the two or 
three pleasant acquaintances I have made, are now cut 
off from me. If I speak to you thus it is because there is 
no one else, and because I believe you to be a fitting 
judge. Captain Makofski, answer me frankly: do you 
find anything peculiar in my father’s manner or in his 
words? ” 

“Really, Miss La Croix, my acquaintance with your 
father has been so short — ’’ 

“True,” she broke in; “but you are a man of the 
world. You know men. Answer me frankly.” 

“First, permit me to ask, is your father not his usual 
self?” 

“His usual self! Oh, heavens! If you could have 
known him a year, yes, six months ago, you would not 
need to ask that. Wait; let me tell you something of 
his life — what he was compared with what he is.” 

“One moment; pardon me. You have both told me 
that there are two or three others who came with you to 
this country — men who served the same cause that your 
father serves — men who knew him abroad.” 

"Knew him, yes, but only for a short time; less than 
a year in fact.” 

“But this change — do I understand that it is recent?”^ 

“Yes. It was his sickness that changed him.” 

“Then may I ask how it is that these friends of yours 
do not see this change? Have they not — ” 

She interrupted him with a strange passionate gesture. 

“Don’t call those men my friends. Why should they 
notice this change in my father when it serves their pur- 
pose so well — when it has made of him just a tool fitted 
to their hands? Ah, my ill-starred father! Those men 
sitting there to-night, calling him their ‘chief,’ deferring 


264 


MOINyl 


to him, and molding him to their will, are, I believe, 
his worst enemies. I believe that he is being made the 
scape-goat for their iniquitous schemes, and that some 
day disaster will come, and my father will be sacrificed, 
to shield them and cover their escape!” 

If Moina had not been too much excited to notice the 
changes that flashed across the face of her companion 
as he listened, she would surely have wondered. First, 
was keen interest; then compassion; next a gleam of 
actual pleasure; and finally, a stern, roused look; and with 
this upon his features he rose and stood straight before 
her. 

“Miss La Croix," he said in a low, grave voice, "you 
have done well in saying this much, and, having said it, 
I beg you to speak further. Tell me of your father be- 
fore this change came. Tell me what you can of these 
men. Do not hesitate or fear to tell me. And I swear 
to you, if what you say or fear is true, if your father is 
being made a tool in designing hands, you shall find a 
friend in me, and a friend who is not quite helplesg 
here. ” 

He extended his hand and she put her own within it; 
and then, sitting there face to face she told of her 
father’s European experiences as a friend of the people, 
of his kindness, his humanity; of her own growing interest 
in the cause, as it appeared to be there. Of their high 
hopes upon coming to America, of how she had become 
disillusioned. She said nothing of the black-list, and 
her discoveries and suspicions; nothing of her long hours 
beside her father’s dream-tormented couch, and their at- 
tendant revelations. 

"Oh! ” she sighed in conclusion; "what a difference ! At 
least it seems so to me. Socialism in Europe — even 
nihilism in Russia— one need not blush to be identified 
with. But this this Amercian socialism, American 


/ BECm TO UNDERSTAND 


265 


anarchy — it is wickedness, it is infamy! Here are no 
starving and oppressed millions. Here is no exile, no 
Siberia, no cruel czar. Oh, the ingrates 1 They come 
from every land to this for shelter, for safety, for refuge 
from all manners of evil, and as soon as their beaten and 
starved bodies grow strong, they turn and jsmite the hand 
that shields them.” 

“Do you think — have you any reason to think, that 
your father, before his illness, had felt any of the dis- 
satisfaction you have expressed?” 

“He never spoke upon the subject, but his actions 
were eloquent to me, who could read him so well. I be- 
lieve he found the provocation small, their methods 
odious. Every time he met with that committee, it 
seemed to me that his uneasiness became more apparent. 
He grew reserved and anxious; sometimes he had a 
really haunted look upon his face. He grew nervous 
and sleepless. Then came a night when an extra session 
was called. He came home late, and in the morning 
was sick with the fever.” 

"I see,” said the captain. 'T begin to understand.” 


CHAPTER XLIII 


SLAVES OF THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE 

While Moina and the captain were arriving at a bet- 
ter understanding, Crashaw, Lugas and Passauf were 
assembled with Miles La Croix in the little room now 
devoted to the sole use of the "committee.” The busi- 
ness of the meeting was soon disposed of, it being mutu- 
ally agreed that for the time being all attempts to make 
of Elias Lord “a thrilling example to all bloated capital- 
ists,” must be abandoned; and that for the same reasons 
that rendered this cessation of hostilities advisable, there 
should be no attempt in a new direction for a week or 
two, at least. And then, after some letters had been 
read and duly commented upon, the formalities of the 
evening being at an end, Mr. La Croix calmly announced 
the presence in his house of a new inmate. 

“The name of my friend Makofski may not be unknown 
to you, ” he said with much dignity. “He came upon me 
quite by surprise, and was of course, not aware of my 
connections with the ‘committee,’" bowing gravely to the 
three. And then he briefly sketched, for their benefit, 
the history of Captain Makofski, as given more in detail 
by himself. “I hope," he concluded, “that after a time 
we may have him among us. He would make a most 
active and useful member. He has held high rank 
among the societies abroad, and his record” — bending a 
calm glance upon Dr. Lugas — “is above suspicion.” 

“All this,” replied Lugas, quite unmoved by glance or 
implication, “is of course vouched for?” 

2G6 


SLAVES OF THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE 


267 


“Assuredly; and in a manner not to be disputed.” 

“What I want to know,” growled Crashaw, who was 
looking ill-pleased, “is how this — this Makofski — found 
you out so readily.” 

“That is easily explained,” said the stately old man; 
“it was Mr. Shanlan who supplied him with my address.” 

At the mention of Shanlan the three men exchanged 
glances. “In that case,” said Lugas, “I have no more to 
say. ” , ^ 

“Oh, nor I,” muttered Crashaw. 

Passauf, as usual, said nothing. 

“What do you think of La Croix’ new acquaintance?” 
asked Crashaw of Lugas, when, having shaken off Pas- 
sauf, they were walking homeward together. 

“Before I express my opinion, I must see this Russian 
exile. ” 

“Confusion! You know what I mean. Of course. La 
Croix has it in his power to make this interloper one of 
us if he choose.” 

“Of course,” coolly. 

“And what then?” 

Lugas lowered his voice and thrust his hand through 
Crashaw’ s arm. “Do you know what I told you not long 
ago?” he began. 

“About what?” 

“About our success in maneuvering La Croix to our 
liking. I said that we should get on well enough so long 
as we encountered no strong opposition.” 

“Well!” impatiently. 

“May we not find this very opposition in this 
stranger?” 

“Do you think — ” 

“I think that, if she did but know it, even Miss La 
Croix, who has by no means a weak will of her own, 


268 


MOINA 


could make us a deal of trouble — and this man if he is 
what La Croix pictures him will soon fathom things; 
will discover his true condition." 

"Well! get to the point!" 

"The point is here: this being the situation may we 
not serve our own purpose but by making him one of 
us. He would be more than half likely to go with the 
majority. " 

"And if he should not?" 

"If he would not," said Lugas significantly, "perhaps 
Tausig could show us a way out of the dilemma." 

"That^s a dangerous resort.” 

"Desperate diseases, you know. But another way has 
just occurred to me." 

"’Umph! What way?” 

"Did you note well an item of information kindly put 
forward by our ‘venerable,’ to the effect that this Captain 
Fernand Makofski was now menaced by a Russian spy, 
in the shape of a woman?” 

Crashaw started. "Pshaw," he said, "I see what you’re 
driving at. But I tell you, you may as well put that 
idea out of your head. That woman is not a Russian 
spy." 

"In your opinion, that is. We happen to differ on the 
subject." 

“Yes," snarled Crashaw, who was in one of his worst 
moods. "You differ because madame does not choose to 
receive you.” 

"Does madame receive you?” asked the impassible 
Lugas. 

"No; but that is for politic reasons. I have my re- 
liable messenger. ” 

"Yes; in Savareis, who is mad in love with madame." 

"What do I care for that; she is not in love with him. ” 

"But you seem to forget; I have my messenger too. 


SLAVES OF THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE 


269 


Nor is that all. Madame will not receive me you say, 
but rest assured my friend, that when it suits me to be 
received by madame, I shall not be shut out.” 

Crashaw sneered and shrugged his shoulders. “Haven’t 
we got a long way from our Russian captain,” he asked. 

“Not so very far; see now, if we find this Makofski in 
our way, an anonymous note to madame denounces him. 
It must not be traced to us of course. This gives us 
the opportunity we seek.” 

“Say, you seek.” 

“That I seek, then. If madame is true to us, then 
Makofski will be recommended to our protection; if she 
is, as I suspect, an emissary of the czar, he will be likely 
to fall into some sort of trouble — perhaps be altogether 
removed from our path.” 

“’Umph; very pretty. Look here Lugas; why do you 
suspect this woman of being an emissary? You are Rus- 
sian as well as s‘he. ” 

“A Pole, my good sir.” 

“A fiddlestick. Call yourself as many Poles as you 
like to others. You’re as much a Russian as madame; 
why may I not suspect ycu of being ‘an emissary of the 
czar!’ ” 

Nothing seemed to ruffle the composure of Mr. Lugas. 
“If I knew that madame hated the czar and his minions, 
as much as I hate them, I should know her for a nihil- 
ist,” he said calmly. “As for madame, I doubt her; 
first, because she has in her veins the blood of her father, 
and next, because she was enriched and ennobled. Not 
born either rich or noble, she was taken to court and 
made much of, and — she is a woman. But enough of 
this; does Savareis keep you well informed?” 

“Well enough.” 

“All the sarrie when a man is in love with a woman, 
he is not to be relied upon. I think he is growing luke- 


270 


MOIN/i 


warm. But here we are at my rooms; will you come 
in?” 

"Yes; you have just put me in mind of something, 
ril go in and we’ll talk it over.” 

When they were closeted together and a box of cigars 
had been placed before his guest, Lugas said: "Now 
for your idea. It concerns Savareis, I’ll wager.” 

"Yes it concerns Savareis, and madame and others.” 


Madame the Princess Sacha Orloff sat in her charm- 
ing little salon; the low luxurious chair was drawn close 
before the grate, where a brisk fire was glowing, glar- 
ing, and it was cheerless outside. She held a gorgeous fire- 
screen between her face and the glow of the coals and 
looked from behind it across the hearth, and into the 
face of a visitor who sat leaning toward her, his eyes 
fastened upon her beautiful but discontented counte- 
nance. 

"It is good to see you alone,” he said at length, see- 
ing that she made no effort to break the silence; “shall 
you call Madame Petralowski as usual as soon as I have 
made known my business?” 

"That depends,” with a half smile. "Or no, not to- 
day, in consideration of the fact that madame is not 
well. She never is well when it rains. She has ^nerves.’ 
I was beginning to have nerves myself when you came 
so opportunely.” 

"Was it opportune?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. "Anything is opportune 
which breaks the monotony of such a day as this. You 
said something about business, 1 think?” 

"Yes.” And now his face clouded. "Do you ever tire 
of all this?” 

"Tire! I tire of such a delightful life? How can you 
think of it?" 


SLAVES OF THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE 


271 


"Oh, you can always mock; I wish I could understand 
you. As it is, I can only — " 

"Hush.” She put up a warning hand. "Sornething 
uncanny is in the air, I think. I am nervous, and cross; 
don’t touch' upon forbidden subjects. Sometimes I think 
you deserve to understand me better — that I will tell 
you something that will make me less a riddle to you. 
But there — not now; not to-day. Tell me your news — 
your business. Let us be as little personal as possible. 
What is it?” 

"Briefly then, you are asked to pay a visit to the studio 
of Miles La Croix.” 

"I?” She threw back her head and frowned. "And 
why?” 

"There is a stranger there; a Russian refugee. I think 
they want you to see him.” 

"Oh! have you seen him?” 

"I have not had the honor. But it will not long be 
withheld. I too am commissioned to cultivate his ac- 
quaintance. I may even be sent back to reside under 
the same roof.” 

She uttered a short laugh. "Better have stayed when 
you were there. ” 

"Yes; as well, at least. That was Crashaw. I went 
as you know, because I really pitied Miss La Croix, 
and wanted to be of use. And I left, as you know, be- 
cause Crashaw commanded it.” 

"But why such haste? The man was still ill.” 

"Oh, yes. He was still ill, but no longer delirious. 
What, have I not told you of my ideas of Crashaw and 
his designs upon Miss La Croix?” . 

"Designs? No, do you mean that he — ” 

"Is in love with her? I hardly think Rufus Crashaw 
could love a woman, but she is an heiress. Don’t mis- 
understand me. He does not pay court to her, but I be- 


272 


MOlN/t 


lieve he hopes to see the day when she will be driven 
to accept him. I don’t know how he means to accom- 
plish this, but I do believe that he will try. She is 
terribly isolated and friendless. Crashaw is deep.” 

"As a well. And why do you not stand champion to 
Miss La Croix?” 

“You are unkind,” he said with sorrowful dignity. 
"You know why I can be no more than a respectful, 
faithful friend to Miss La Croix. Beside, if I were to 
be anything more than courteous, Crashaw would with- 
draw me from the house altogether, and she would be 
quite cut off. Since the strange change in her father, 
her life must be dreary enough.” 

Her face softened and for a moment she turned it 
away. Then: “Tell me about this Russian,” she said 
abruptly. “Po you know why he is to b5 honored with 
our attentions?" 

“I think they fear him, or are a little in doubt. Per- 
haps they hope you may be able to identify him. As 
for me, I am simply a watch-dog, to report how he gets 
on with La Croix, and how he is regarded by Miss 
Moina. But let me tell you his story as I know it.” 

And he hastily sketched the story as it had been re- 
lated to Crashaw and Lugas by Miles La Croix. When 
he had finished, “You have forgotten to tell me his 
name," she said, with a strange look in her eyes. 

“Pardon me; his name is Captain Fernand Makofs- 
ki." 

“Captain Fernand Makofski.” She was on her feet 
with the words, her eyes glowing with excitement, the 
expression of her face inscrutable. 

“Do you know him?” cried Savareis. 

“I have read of his arrest and imprisonment,” she 
said hastily. 

“He — he was a brave man.” 


SLAVES OF THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE 


273 


"Then perhaps your visit ^will have some interest to 
you. " 

"Undoubtedly." 'She resumed her seat and tried to 
resume her indifferent manner. "And you — you are bid- 
den to become intimate with him, Rene." He started and 
flushed at the name. "Promise me something." 

"Anything? ” 

"Whatever you see, or learn, or think concerning this 
man, thi^ Captain Makofski, promise me that it shall 
be made known to me before it is reported at the cen- 
tral committee." 

He gazed at her for a moment with a troubled face; 
then, "I promise," he said; "I belong to you more than 
to the central committee." 

"Thank you. Some day I hope you will understand 
all this; will love me no less, and pity me more." Her 
face was strangely softened. "Until then," — She held 
out her hand and smiled. He took it and kissed it 
humbly — "Until then, Rene, you know this: I trust you 
and count you my friend, my only friend at most. But 
Rene, what do you mean by what you said a moment 
since? — that you belong more to me than to the Cause? 
Tell me." 

He got up and came nearer. They were both stand- 
ing now. 

“I mean this," he said firmly — "if it were not for you, 
if you were not identified with them, I would turn my 
back upon the society to-morrow. You know how I 
came into it, I think. You know, at least, that my 
father, who was a much-wronged man, allied himself to 
the revolutionists of Poland, served the cause abroad 
faithfully and dying besought me to devote myself to it 
in my turn. I was a mere stripling, brought from the 
university to stand beside his death-bed, and his life was 
almost gone. I took the oath he dictated; a strange, 
Moina — 18 


274 


MOINyl 


wild oath it was. Rufus Crashaw was present and from 
that moment he has never Tost sight of me. As soon as 
I left school I joined the order, and I tried honestly to 
serve it well. But I can nor say that my heart was ever 
in it.” 

"What, not in those fiery speeches that made you 
quite famous over there?" 

"Oh, that was my little gift, and that even wore itself 
threadbare. To stand night after night before those 
crowds— sometimes mad and unreasoning, sometimes 
stolid and brutal, never logical, never enl ightened, never 
aught but selfish — it is enough to disillusion a more enthu- 
siastic man than myself. But just when my fate seemed 
hardest and bleakest, Crashaw brought me to you. Do 
you know that I have sometimes thought that there was 
a design in it?” 

"Upon whose part?” 

"Upon his. Good heavens, did you think I could 
accuse you?” 

"In your place many a man would do more, for I 
encouraged you to work on; I praised you, I glorified the 
cause and exhorted you to stand for it. I showed you 
ways, I invented new arguments. Ah, you have a right 
to hate me.” 

"Madam — ” 

"Wait, let us have this out. We are talking treason, 
both of us, and we know it. Nevertheless we will go 
on. You and I were European revolutionists. You 
embraced it as a duty; I — say that with me it was an en- 
thusiasm. In Europe we might be still revolutionists per- 
haps, but here, oh Rene, you can no more be an Ameri- 
can anarchist than I can. Our eyes have been opened 
over here. We have been behind the wings ; we have seen 
the wheels within wheels my friend; promise me this: 
that you will be guarded, that you will not let them. 


SLAVES OF THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE 


275 


Crashaw and Lugas, see your dissatisfaction. Wait a 
little. Do not make enemies of these men yet. They 
are tigers. But this shall end — your bondage and my 
false position. Only have patience a little longer. Trust 
me and do not question me." 

"And you will go then to see this stranger at La 
Croix’?” 

"My friend, are we not pledged to the central com- 
mittee? I shall obey; do you the same." 

He was silent, gazing at her wistfully. 

"I think I read your thoughts," she said. "You are 
wondering at my obstinacy. How many times have you 
asked me to see this Moina La Croix? and how often 
have I put you off with an evasion? Now I will tell you 
the truth. I have no reason for withholding my friend- 
ship from this lonely little friend of yours. I am for- 
bidden. " 

"Forbidden!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes; by the central committee." 

"Oh!" he cried, "I begin to understand." 

"And thanks to you, so do I. But wait. Trust me, I 
will obey my masters; and — this girl who seems so 
hemmed in, shall find a friend. And now you must go, I 
have something to do. Tell Mr. Lugas that I shall not 
fail him. Remember." 


CHAPTER XLIV 


STRANGE PROCEEDING 

Up to the time when Captain Makofski became an in- ' 
mate of the La Croix house, Dr. Lugas had never visited 
that abode except upon the evenings when business 
called them together. From the first, there had been no 
affinity between himself and Miles La Croix, who had 
accepted him as a fellow-worker, and knew his value as 
such, but who seemed well content to keep their inter- 
course upon a strictly business footing. 

Now it was necessary that they meet Captain Makofs- 
ki, for La Croix was intent on making him one of them. 
And so the two, Crashaw and Lugas, presented them- 
selves in the studio one morning, when they found La 
Croix nervously laying on color, arrayed in his long, 
black artist’s gown, and Makofski lounging with a cigar 
between his lips and the morning papers upon his knee. 

The two revolutionists meant to be very acute and to 
penetrate any disguise or trickery, for they were quite 
ready to believe that Miles La Croix had been victimized 
in some manner by this stranger who had carried his 
house by storm. 

Crashaw entered with his most English air, and Lugas 
more suave was yet supremely indifferent, and prepared 
to adopt a rather high tone. 

But man’s best laid plans fail often for lack of oppor- 
tunity, and Crashaw and Lugas suddenly found the tables 
turned. Captain Makofski greeted them affably, it is 

m 


STRANGE PROCEEDING 


377 


true, and entered readily into conversation; but there 
was no opportunity to overawe or patronize Makofski. 


“Well?" said Crashaw, in a tone of inquiry when they 
were fairly out of the house and pacing the quiet street 
side by side. “He has got a firm foothold in La Croix’ 
house, and if he is inclined to make us trouble, we may 
look out for him. It will be no child’s play." 

“Bah! I know all that. But what is he? Is he what 
he seems, or an impostor?” 

“Very few of us, my dear sir, are just what we seem. 
He is disguised." 

“Really! He told us that and that he meant to remain 
so." 

“There is nothing beyond reason in his story^ And 
if he is not Makofski, who is he? And why does he con- 
ceal himself? One thing is certain, he is a fixture there 
for the present, and we will be very foolish not to keep 
an eye on him. He does not seem particularly interested 
in us.” — 

“We might write to Sharlan?” 

“The very worst thing we could do. If he has sent 
this man, it would be a blunder. If he is what he pre- 
tends, or whatever he is, depend on it, that man is too 
clever to have made use of Sharlan’ s name without 
authority for the same." 


While the two revolutionists were thus cheering each 
other. Princess Sacha entered Madeline’s boudoir with 
the quiet, graceful movement peculiar to her in moments 
of haste, and paused directly before the low chair where 
Madeline reclined with a book in her hand. 

“Do not rise, ma belle, I have only a moment to stay — 
only a word to speak. I have come to beg a favor. " She 


278 


MOIN/I 


dropped down upon the ottoman, close beside Madeline 
and hurried on. “I am sure you will grant it, for you 
are always ready to do good. It is a little unusual, the 
thing I am asking of you, but it is a kind fhing, and it 
must be right therefore.” 

“If it is right and kind,” smiled Madeline, “we won’t 
consult all the proprieties.” 

"Oh, thank you. Now I can get on bravely. There 
is in this city a famil}’ in whom one of my friends is 
much interested. He met them, I believe, in coming to 
this country. The father is strange and something of a 
hermit. And the daughter — my friend tells me, she is 
beautiful and good — is singularly alone. He has asked 
me more than once to see her, to try and be kind to her, 
but I have to consult, a little, the wishes, the preju- 
dices of another.” 

"I understand,” said Madeline aloud. To herself she 
said, "she wishes me to think that she means her sup- 
posed mother; I know better.” 

"To-day I learned that these people have a guest, a 
Russian, and a man whose name leads me to believe he 
may be one whom we used to be much interested in. 
And, to make a long story short, I am permitted to go 
now, where I was forbidden before, in the hope of find- 
ing a compatriot. But I must not be too kind to the 
young lady, should I chance to see her. Oh!” smiling 
up into Madeline’s ‘face, "it is terrible to be an aristo- 
crat with prejudices. Now will you help me?” 

"You have not told me in what way.” 

"Why, thus: we will drive there together, you and I. 
I will ask for the Russian guest, and while I am paying 
my respects to him, you naturally would be left to the 
courtesies of this young girl, would you not?” 

"Perhaps. ” 

"At any rate I can see no better plan, and I am 


STRANGE PROCEEDING 


279 


anxious to know this girl, to help her if I can. She is 
motherless and has had much trouble, I am told.” 

Madeline reflected. What was the Princess Sacha 
attempting? Why did she wish her company? For of 
course she did not for a moment believe this pretty ver- 
sion of the pretty story. Then she remembered a frag- 
ment of Drexel’s advice concerning the princess: “See as 
much of her as you c^n; above all, try and learn who 
are her visitors and whom she visits.” 'T will go,” she 
said. 

“Good. Then it shall be at once — that is to-day.” 

At this moment Madeline's maid appeared at the door- 
way. Some one was waiting for madam, the princess. 
It was Rene Savareis whom she found awaiting her. 
He held a letter in his hand. "Honors are heaped upon 
me,” he said bitterly. "To-da}’^ I am made a messenger. 
You know why I accepted the dignity.” 

"Perfectly, my poor Rene. But patience, and give me 
the letter.” 

“I hope I have brought you nothing unpleasant,” he 
said as she took it from his hand. 

She opened it hastily and read it, standing opposite 
him. Then her face clouded. 

"Listen,” she said, angrily, "and judge. ” She told him 
briefly of the plans she had formed for outwitting Cra- 
shaw and Lugas, by introducing Madeline into the La 
Croix home, and letting her bring about future meetings 
with Moina. Savareis had already heard of Sacha’s 
acquaintance with "the beautiful American," as she had 
called her, but he knew her by no other name. 

"All was arranged,” finished Sacha, "and now comes 
this.” And she struck the letter smartly with one little 
hand. "Hear it.”, 

"Madam: — It has been thought best that we go together 
(you and I) to see the Russian refugee, calling himself 


380 


MOINA 


Makofski. I have hoped that you might have chanced 
to have seen this man, as he has been in the army (if he 
is not an impostor) and posted, he tells us, for sometime 
at Odessa, as well as at the capital. Should you recog- 
nize him, you will be pleased to signify the same to me 
at once. You will find me waiting for you promptly at 
four P. M. at the corner of the small oblong park, less 
than two blocks from La Croix^ house. Please be punct- 
ual. Yours respectfully, 

“By order of the committee. Lugas. ’’ 

She looked up, her eyes flaming. "The coward!” she 
cried. “The wretch! To dare this impertinence, and 
then to cloak it under the name of the committee. And 
I am to go with him to identify a — tell me,” she caught 
his arm suddenly, “why are they so anxious about this 
man? ” 

“I can only say what I said yesterday. They fear him, 
I verily believe, but why — ” 

“Never mind why. I will go. Tell Mr. Lugas I will 
be prompt at the rendezvous.” 

“There is another amendment to the program. They 
want me to be there, also. I am to call upon Miss La 
Croix. ” 

“I see! That is to prevent me from encountering her.” 

“Precisely. I am to be received in the drawing-room — 
you in the studio.” 

“Very good.” Sacha’s cheeks were burning hotly. 
“Let it be so. Only if some one else appears in the 
drawing-room you will give the two ladies all possible 
chance to exchange a few words.” 

“1 will do whatever you wish.” 


When Savareis had taken his leave, the Princess Sacha 
went back to Madeline. 


STRANGE PROCEEDING 


281 


"It is odious!" she began in her pretty abrupt fashion. 
"All my plans are spoiled, unless you will consent to do 
a very quixotic thing. I have just received a note which 
informs me that another compatriot, a physician, will 
visit me to-day, and I shall have to take him to see this 
Russian officer, instead of going with you. We are as 
clannish as Jews, you see. And now, how shall we man- 
age? I have set my heart on your meeting Moina La 
Croix. " 

"Whom?" 

"Miss La Croix; Moina La Croix." 

"And it is she then who is so alone; whose father is 
a recluse and” — she checked herself, and moderated her 
tone. "Pardon my surprise, but I think there can hardly 
be two Moina La Croix, and I made the acquaintance of 
Moina La Croix and her father en route from Europe to 
America on shipboard.” 

"And you know her?” 

"We became quite friends, but of late have seen little 
of each other.” 

"Do you object to yisiting her?” 

"By no means. I will go at anytime." 


At half past three Madeline's carriage was at the door, 
and she was drawing on her gloves when a note was put 
into her hands. 

She recognized DrexePs writing, and tossed aside the 
gloves, opened it, and read with amazement, these 
words: 

"Please call, upon some pretext, and as soon as possi- 
ble, upon Miss La Croix. Be kind to her; she needs a 
friend. And above all, contrive in some manner to see 
Mr. La Croix.^ Ask for him, if you must, stay to lunch- 
eon — anything, so that you see him. And then observe 


283 


MOIhJA 


him closely. Note if you find him the same as you 
knew him first, and write me the results of your observa- 
tions at once. Hurst.” 

And now it is Madeline's turn to be agitated. She 
paces up and down the room, with the note crumpled 
between her fingers. "What farce is this?" she mur- 
mured, "or perhaps what tragedy? What can it mean! 
The plot thickens indeed. Why do these two, who seem 
engaged in some nameless strife, unite in wishing this! 
Strange, very strange." 


CHAPTER XLV 


TOO COMPLICATED 

Rene Savareis, up to the time of his arrival in Amer- . 
ica, had in accordance with the obligations taken upon 
himself in entering the circle to which he belonged, 
always obeyed the orders of the committee in charge, 
without question or reluctance. But his work had not 
been repulsive there — it had not outraged his finer feel- 
ings. He had been one of the mouth-pieces of the order, 
and little but words had been required of him. In 
New York things began so at first, but gradually there 
came a change. He became less an orator, and more, to 
use one of his own phrases, “a utility person;” instead of 
addressing meetings he was sent now and then to listen. 
He found himself collecting data and learning the 
strength of this guild and that, finding out the leaders of 
the different orders — not the officers only, but the man 
who was foremost in the time of strife — the stirrer up of 
strikes and riots. He was sent to the haunts of the 
socialists, the nihilists, the disaffected, by whatever 
name they chose to call themselves. And gradually he 
had come to look upon his work from a new point of 
view, and a most unsatisfactory one. 

It was in one of these saloon visits that he had made the 
acquaintance of Hosmer, who had chanced to render him 
some slight service, and the two had struck fire at once. 
They were well-mated. Savareis lost no time in pre- 
senting Hosmer to Crashaw, and he was taken over to the 
house of Miles La Croix, but the visit was not repeated 

283 


284 


MOINA 


and Crashaw listened coldly to Savareis’ eulogies, and 
turned a deaf ear to his proposals to take Hosmer in 
and make him one of them. 

"It won’t do,” Crashaw had, said — "at least, not yet. 
We can’t afford to take in any of these Americans with 
their western notions; certainly not until they’ve been 
well tested, and our footing here is firmer. Keep an eye 
on the fellow as much as you like. Use him if you may. 
But be careful. Tell him nothing. Learn all you can.” 

He was taken at his word. Savareis said no more 
about Hosmer, but the acquaintance grew, and as each 
learned more of the cause they had hastily espoused, 
they compared notes and expressions freely. And then, 
as the end proved, -it was good for both. Each helped 
the other toward the solution of his individual riddle. 

It was after a long and cheering talk with Kenneth, 
that Savareis took his way, at four o’clock, toward the 
La Croix abode. He had decided that to assist Sacha in 
gaining her point, he would do well to arrive late. And 
he loitered about, not too far away, until he saw Made- 
line’s carriage draw up before the door. Now, being 
near enough to see her quite clearly, he recognized with 
much amazement, the young lady he had met on ship- 
board, and whom he had lost sight of since. I-n an in- 
stant his decision was taken. He waited long enough to 
feel tolerably sure that all had gone well, and that Mad- 
eline had been received, and then he walked to the near- 
est corner, where he found and entered a cab, just as the 
carriage of the Princess Sacha Orloff, with the lady and 
Lugas visible within, dashed past and up to the La Croix 
door. 

Then he drove at once to Crashaw’ s rooms. 

"What’s this?” cried out that individual, seeing his 
cool entry. "Why are you not at your post?” 

"Simply because I did not choose to run any risk. 


TOO COMPLICATED 


285 


Miss La Croix is safely diverted. She has avrsitor who 
might have thought my appearance strange,” and he told 
him of Madeline’s visit, and reminded him of when they 
had met, omittifig, however, the fact that this visit was 
due to the influence of the Princess Sacha. 

“So,” said Crashaw, knitting his brows, “that acquaint- 
ance has been kept up; it must not go on. It must be 
nipped in the bud.” 

“Really! Then I shall beg of you to do the nipping. 
I believed myself acting for the best interests of all, by 
retiring as I did.” 

“Oh, you were right enough. I was not criticising 
your course ; on the whole, it was for the best. As for 
this new acquaintance, I will attend to that. I will break 
that off.” 

“I hope you see your way,” said Savareis coldly. 

"I do. I see it clearly. Give yourself no trouble 
about that.” 

Savareis said no more. He was thinking of Made- 
line Payne, as he remembered her during the pleasant 
days of that ocean voyage, -and asking himself if, with 
Madeline Payne and the Princess Sacha against him, 
Crashaw would find his path as easy as he seemed to an- 
ticipate. 

Meantime, Moina had received her friend with a mixt- 
ure of pleasure and reserve that was at once noticed by 
Madeline. She noted too, the new look in the girl’s 
face, and said to herself, “Drexel was right. She has 
had trouble, has suffered, and it has made her stronger. 
It has made her a woman.” 

There was, of necessity, much reserve on the part of 
each, and yet it was evident that they were cordially 
glad of this meeting. Moina told of her father’s long 
illness, which she said had left him sadly changed. And 


286 


MOINA 


Madeline gave a modified version of Mr. Lord^s sickness, 
and of Mrs. Ralston’s nerves, and then told of her own 
removal to the Occidental. When this subject was ex- 
hausted, she asked her, with her most cordial smile, if 
she might not pay her respects to Mr. La Croix. 

"I believe there are some people with papa,” said 
Moina, with indifference. "We have a guest at present. 
But, by the by, I think the callers are for Captain Fer- 
nand quite as much as for papa. I will ask him to come 
to us.” 

And she rang for Margot and sent her with a request 
that her father would give her a few moments of his 
time. She did not mention Madeline’s name. 


If Captain Makofski had felt any uneasiness as to the 
outcome of the expected visit from Dr. Lugas and “a 
fair compatriot” — for Lugas had given her no other title 
in appointing their meeting — it had not been apparent 
when the Princess Sacha closely followed by Lugas swept 
into the room. By her own request she had been pre- 
sented simply as Madam Orloff. 

His greeting was calmly respectful, and hers, after a 
moment’s survey of him, was smilingly cordial. She 
went toward him and put out her hand. 

When she had been presented to Miles La Croix, and 
some general civilities had been exchanged, she turned 
again to Captain Fernand. 

“Captain,” she began, “I beg of you to assist my mem- 
ory. Your face troubles me. Have we somewhere met 
before?” 

“The face of the Princess Orloff is as familiar to me,” 
he said gallantly, “as if it had been but days instead of 
years since it flashed past me in the carriage of the 
Prince Viadimei Orloff. Madam the Princess was still a 


TOO COMPLICATED 


287 


bride, and the toast and envy of half the capital, when 
I was unfortunately banished.” 

"Ah!” She was looking at him fixedly. “Then you 
were never presented to me. I had a fancy that 3^ou 
might have been. I must have seen your face.” 

"That is more than possible. You might have chanced 
to gjance at me when on review, or sometime at the 
palace; I was much on duty there. But a presentation 
to Madam the Princess would have been an honor not 
to be forgotten.” 

"Yes,” she said as if quite satisfied with the explana- 
tion, “that is it of course. We have met at the palace.” 

And then she began to talk of Russia, of nihilism, and 
she let him see without reserve, how much she was in- 
terested in the cause for which he had suffered. They 
talked of Odessa and St. Petersburg, of Siberia and the 
exile systems, even of Prince Viadimei Orloff and his 
illness and death. And on all topics, Captain Makofski 
met her half-way. The conversation was confined almost 
exclusively to these two. Miles La Croix retired within 
himself, and Lugas was almost ignored when he made 
an attempt to take a part in the conversation. 

Princess Sacha seemed quite absorbed in the enter- 
taining captain. She glowed and sparkled and smiled, 
and her talk flowed crisp and bright with abundance of 
animated gesture. 

One would judge she was trying to fascinate him, 
thought Lugas, not too well-pleased. Captain Makofski 
was certainly a social success. 

When Moina's message came, it was Princess Sacha 
who urged him to go. 

“Go, I beg of you, sir,” she said eagerly. “I regret 
that I am unable to pay my respects to your charming 
daughter in person, but present them to her, I beg, and 
say that at another time I hope to know her. See, I 


288 


MOIN^ 


have only a few moments more for Captain Makofski, 
and then — other engagements call. Go, my dear sir; 
no excuses, none.” 


When La Croix first stood in Madeline’s presence, a 
look of doubt and perplexity rested for a moment on his 
face. Then it cleared and his greeting was like that 
of the old Miles La Croix. Moina’s heart bounded as 
she noted it. But the better moment passed, and before 
he had been long in her presence, Madeline saw the 
change. What had been gravity, was now nervous pre- 
occupation. The fine eyes had grown restless, the strong 
face had changed wofully. He spent an unquiet ten 
minutes with Moina and Madeline and then went back 
to the studio. Madeline did not seek to detain him. 
That teh minutes had been quite enough. 

As Madeline was about to go, she stood with Moina 
just within the drawing-room door to say the usual part- 
ing words. Standing thus, she heard another door un- 
close, and then she stood transfixed, as the sound of a 
masculine voice, uttering farewell courtesies, fell upon 
her ear. Fortunately, Moina did not notice her start, 
and she recovered herself quickly. 

“Papa’s guests are going too,” said Moina; "will you 
wait or — ” 

“I will go,” said Madeline acting upon a sudden im- 
pulse. And she swept out and down toward the group 
just emerging from the studio. With a bow and smile 
for Mr. La Croix, a passing glance for Sacha, and another, 
swift and keen, that rested first upon the swarthy Lugas, 
standing beside the princess, and last and longest, upon 
the tall man with the bearded face and thick auburn 
hair who stood within the doorway uttering his good- 
byes to Sacha, and who bent his head as she passed. 

Margot and her maid were in the little ante-room near 


TOO COMPLICATED 


289 


the street entrance, and Madeline was in her carriage 
and rolling away before the princess had reached the 
street. 

“Ah!” murmured Madeline as she leaned back among 
her cushions, “I have made a great discovery.” 

A moment later, Lugas, sitting opposite the princess 
and being wheeled along close behind Madeline's car- 
riage said, “Well, it seems then that Captain Makofski 
is not an impostor.” 

“Did you hope to find him one?” she asked sharply. 

He smiled and turned his glance streetward. “What- 
ever I hoped,” he said, “I am now quite satisfied.” 

She was silent a moment, then in a more affable tone 
she asked: “Shall you ask him to join you?” 

“I hardy know as yet — perhaps.” 

“You say tlfat he does not go out at all?” 

“That is what he says. At least he only strolls about 
a little, just for the sake of his health, you know, after 
dark. ” 

Again she seemed thoughtful. “I should like to meet 
him again,” she said. 

“Then we must find you another opportunity,” an- 
swered Lugas. 

“Thank you.” 

He was watching her furtively, and she lowered her 
long lashes and tried to keep the sarcasm out of her 
voice. 

When he was again alone with Crashaw, Lugas said — 
after giving a full report of the interview between Ma- 
kofski and the princess— “one thing is clear to my mind. 
It is of the Princess Sacha that the captain spoke, 
when he mentioned a woman whom he might have cause 
to fear. There is no other possible. Now, does he 
know that this woman is the princess?” 

Moina — ig 


290 


MOIN^ 


"Can’t say." 

"Well, if he is what he pretends, and is well informed 
about this woman, then I am right, and you wrong — 
and the princess is a traitor. I am puzzled ; I confess 
it. I don’t understand either of them. But where was 
Savareis? He was not there, and some one else was.” 

"Yes, I know." Whereupon Crashaw, in his turn, ex- 
plained Savareis’ absence. 

"I think, , for once, the fellow acted judiciously," he 
concluded. 

"If the lady had seen him on shipboard, he did well 
not to seem to be too familiar there." 

"Who did you say this young woman is?" 

"A Miss Madeline Payne. By the by, Savareis tells 
me that she is living at the Occidental, and has become 
quite well acquainted with the princess." 

"Eh?” 

"Is there anything so strange in that?" 

"Well, no; but look here; we met, all of us, as we 
were taking leave, and the two women passed each other 
as strangers. I don’t like this. There are too many 
complications. " 

"Well, never mind the woman, but let’s get back to 
our Russian captain. We must fix his position, and we 
can’t do it too soon." 

"Where he is concerned," said Lugas grimly, "we can 
do but one of two things. Either he must be got rid 
of before we begin to act again, or he must become one 
of us." 


CHAPTER XLVI 


A NEW ALLY 

Neither Madeline nor the princess were inclined for 
conversation, upon their return. 

More than ever, Madeline studied the Princess Sacha 
with wonder and doubt. Who was the strange man with 
the dark foreign face? and where did she take him up? 
That he was not a visitor at the hotel, she was very sure. 
And what an unprepossessing face! 

Finally she began a letter toDrexel, telling him the 
story of the entire day. 

Madam Sacha presented herself in Madeline's boudoir 
in due time, and thanked the latter warmly and in the 
prettiest of phrases for her “goodness in calling upon 
Miss La Croix,’’ while she regretted the foolish preju- 
dices which compelled her to remain aloof. But she did 
not follow up the subject and withdrew soon. 

Madeline dined alone and late, and when she entered 
her boudoir immediately after, she found Minna await- 
ing her — bright-eyed and eager. 

“It has happened already, my fraulein,’’ she began. 
"The young Frenchman has been in the rooms of the 
princess for half an hour." 

“Oh! ’’ Madeline reflected for a moment, then taking a 
sudden resolution, she said: “Go to the princess, Minna, 
and say to her, with my compliments, that if she is dis- 
engaged for the evening, I will join her, unless she will 
kindly come to me here." 

“Yes, fraulein.” 


291 


293 


MOINA 


.1 ifJ 

Minna was back in a moment, with her quiet step 
and demure manners. 

"Madam the princess begs to be excused," she said. 
"She is going out this evening." And then in a more 
confidential tone she added, "I entered as usual, fraulein, 
for the door of the ante-room was not locked. Before I' 
was fairly in, I heard madam’s voice. She was just in- 
side the curtains, with the young gentleman, who must 
have been taking his leave. ‘Say to him that I will 
come,’ she was saying. ‘But this must not be repeated. 
It is not safe. I will not risk it. I will come to-mor- 
row at ten o’clock. I will come alone. Is it far?’ Then 
I heard him say: ‘No; you can walk it easily. But you 
will not let me go with you?’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘I will 
go alone.’ I dared not listen any more. I could see 
the curtain shake as if she were about to draw back. I 
made a sound with the door as if I had just opened it 
and I called softly, Justine, Justine. Madam was before 
me in a moment, looking angry and startled. I gave her 
your message and came away." 

Madeline looked thoughtful. "You may go, Minna." 
she said. 

Minna withdrew, but in a few moments was back 
again. 

"Well, Minna?" 

Minna seemed a little embarrassed. She fidgeted nerv- 
ously as she proffered her request. "Would the frau- 
lein permit her to go out? If she did not need her, of 
course. She had an errand and she would come back 
soon. It was early and she was not afraid." 

Madeline eyed her closely and a smile curved the cor- 
ners of her mouth. For a moment it seemed that she was 
about to refuse, but at last she said: 

"I shall not need you for an hour or more. You may 

go-” 


\ 



“THEY ARB MUCH TROUBLED TO ACCOUNT FOR YOUR PRESENCE 
IN THIS COUNTRY.”— Moina, p. 295. 




294 


MOINA 


Ten minutes later a lady dressed in dark, plain gar- 
ments, and wearing a drooping hat which shadowed and 
half concealed her features, emerged from the private 
door, used only by the resident patrons of the Occiden- 
tal, and walked briskly eastward. 

Half a block away, a second female figure overtook 
her and in passing, turned briskly, saying: “Is it you. 
Madam the Princess, and alone?” 

It was in truth Princess Sacha, and starting slightly, 
she halted and answered quietly enough : 

“Why, Minna, you startled me. Yes, it is I. I wanted 
to come out and Justine had a headache. I am only 
going to post some letters and — and by the time I am 
back, my carriage will be ready. I am going out, you 
know. ” 

“To post some letters? Then I may see madam safe to 
the letter-box and back, may I not? I am going there too. ” 

“Y — yes,” she said slowly. “Only I djd not mean to 
walk so far. Perhaps — Minna, suppose you take the let- 
ters, yours and mine, and post them where they will go 
quickest. It is almost time for my carriage.” 

“Certainly, madam. I am not afraid, and I know where 
to go.” 

She took the two letters which the princess held out 
to her, and when they had gone a block further eastward 
the ladf said: 

“I think I will turn back now. Be careful, Minna, and 
post them safely.” 

She stood for a moment watching the girl as she made 
her way with quick, sure steps across the street, and 
then turned and retraced her steps. 

At the second corner a little man appeared, suddenly, 
at her side and made the crossing with her silently, prof- 
fering his assistance where the crowd was thickest, which 
she as silently accepted. 


A NEIV ALLY 


2D5 


When they had reached the further side, she put a 
hand upon his arm and they both slackened their pace. 

"Well?” she said under lier breath. 

"There is much to say," began the man respectfully. 
"I have heard from Sharlan. ” His tone had been low 
from the first word, but as he uttered this name, he 
glanced about him’ and dropped his voice yet lower. 
"He is at a loss in this matter. He was surprised to 
learn that the man Lugas, occupies so high a place here. 
It is by no authority of his. He will make further in- 
vestigations, and if the man is dangerous, if what you 
say, or fear, proves true — "again he paused and looked 
about him — "there is but one way." 

Under the drooping hat her eyes gleamed and her lips 
were tightly compressed. "And that?" she whispered. 

"The last resort, and — it will rest in your hands." 

She shivered and drew a little away from him, as put- 
ting a hand inside the breast of his coat, he withdrew a 
small package and proffered it to her. 

"It is the only way,” he said. "You realize our posi- 
tion — yours as well as mine. Without that, his power is 
beyond yours. With it — " 

"With it, it may be a drawn game — a battle,” she sup- 
plemented. "I am not afraid." She held the package 
firmly now, and threw back her head. 

"Nor I, I hope.” The man’s tone was strangely even 
and emotionless. 

"I was thinking of the others, not of you, my friend," 
she said. "But go on. What else have you to tell?” 

"They are much troubled to account for your presence 
in this country.” 

"I know that." 

"Do you know that they have written to the European 
correspondents to learn, if possible, what your mission 
here really is?" 


206 


MOINA 


“No. Have they done that?’’ 

“Yes; and more and worse. They profess to fear 
you may be, after all, in the service of the Russian 
police. ’’ 

“Oh!" She stifled a mocking laugh. “I wonder what 
they would think your mission might be if they knew, 
you were here? ’’ 

“Luckily for me, they do not know that I am here. I 
am suffered to be a limping fixture in Thames street." 

They walked on in silence for a moment, then: “Is 
that all from abroad?" she asked. 

“Not quite. Since they have learned over there that 
Crashaw, who was sent here as the head of the circle 
or our half of it, has abdicated in favor of Miles La Croix, 
who is accredited as second on their roll, it has set them 
thinking. They have made some discoveries which will 
be communicated to us duly. Crashaw, you know, was 
appointed one of the trustees of the funds collected 
here. " 

“Yes." 

“They are investigating, I think, in that direction." 

“Oh!” It was evident from her tone that this item of 
information was of slight interest to her. Suddenly she 
asked: “Did you ever hear of one Fernand Makofski, 
Dissel?" 

The man started. “The name is familiar," he said. 
“It is the name of a Russian officer exiled shortly after 
the killing of the czar. He is said to have escaped and 
to be in the home of Miles La Croix. Are you sure you 
do not know him?" 

“Quite sure. " 

“I must see this man, and I want you to be my mes- 
senger. I have here a letter that must be delivered this 
evening, if possible; you need only ask for him, and if 
he does not choose to appear, leave it in the hands of 


A NEIV ALLY 


297 


the maid-servant, saying that you will await an answer.” 

"And how will you get the answer, madam?” 

“Oh, I shall not ask you to bring it. It will be quite 
safe to trust it to a messenger, only 1 must have it early. 
You will go?” 

“I am yours to command, madam. ' 

“Thank you, Dissel. We will turn here. Y,ou may 
walk with me to the next street. I am near my hotel 
then. When shall I meet you next? I am growing quite 
familiar with the city.” 

“And I,” he said. “Let our next meeting be by da}''. 
You will find the place set down on this card. We 
shall be quite secure there.” 

“Very well. That was a nice thought of yours, Dissel, 
to meet at stated times and never twice in the same 
place. ” 

“I cannot be too thoughtful of you, madam,” he said. 

A moment later they were at the street corner and 
both halted. 

“Good-night, Dissel.” 

“Good-night, madam.” 

The two stood for a moment, hesitating, as if each 
had a word more which it was hard to utter. She moved 
away a pace and then came nearer. 

“Dissel, there is a little, a little hope. I am promised 
some news soon.” And now she put out her hand. 

“God grant it!” he said, bending over her hand. Sud- 
denly it was withdrawn. i 

“Good-night,” she whispered over her shoulder and 
was gone, while he stood gazing after her fleeting figure 
until it was lost among the passers-by. 

“A daring woman,” he muttered, as she turned away, 
“and a determined.” Then shaking his head slowly — 
“How will it end, I wonder? How will it end?” 

An hour after leaving Madeline’s presence, Minna was 


298 


MOIl^A 


back again. She entered the boudoir and came and 
stood directly before her mistress. 

"May I tell the fraulein something?” 

"Go on, Minna.” 

"As I went out I overtook a lady who was walking not 
very fast. This was half a block away, fraulein. I 
passed her and behold it was madam the princess.” 

Here the girl paused and looked her mistress full in 
the face, "Shall 1 go on, fraulien?” 

For a moment Madeline returned the gaze calmly and 
a trifle coldly. 

Then she said, "Go on, Minna.” 

Whereupon Minna related with minuteness, her inter- 
view with the princess, up to the point when the letters 
were put into her hand, and the two had parted at the 
street corner. 

Here she paused again and as Madeline remained 
silently awaiting her next words, she finally asked: 

"What would you have had me do next, fraulein? ” 

"What did you do, Minna? Come, I understand; you 
were acting to please me. Tell me how it ended." 

"I took the letters, fraulein, and went across the street. 
It was not so light on that side, and after I had walked 
a few steps, I turned back and stood in the shadow of 
a great portico. Madam had been looking after me too, 
it would seem, for I saw her in the place 'where I had 
left her. But at that moment she turned and went back; 
I crossed again and was walking quickly, trying to keep 
her in sight, for I knew that she had meant to shake me 
off, when quick as that,” — illustrating by a swift gesture, 
— "she turned again and came fast toward me. I could 
do nothing then but go close to the wall, and stand there. 
She passed without seeing me. She went back to the 
same corner, and I followed. Then she turned, going 
north, and a little further on a man joined her. Ah, 


A NEIV ALLY 


299 


fraulein, if you could have seen him! He was worse 
than the dark man. That is, I could not see his face, 
being all the time behind them, but he was not a gen- 
tleman at all — a little man who walked awkwardly and 
was dressed like a tradesman. She took his arm and 
they walked slowly, seeming to talk together earnestly. 
Of course I could not come too near, and when they 
separated, I saw madam the princess come back here. 
Her carriage was at the door, and she got into it at 
once. ” 

“And you, Minna?" 

“Perhaps my kind fraulein will say that I have done 
wrong. I meant it well. I came up to my roorri, not 
having either paper or pencil with me, and I wrote down 
the names that were upon madam’s two letters; then I 
went out and posted them. Here are the names upon 
the two letters. I wrote them very carefully." She 
held out a half-sheet of note paper, upon which was 
written two addresses. 

The first was a Russian address, and Madeline rightly 
guessed it to be that of a steward or business agent. 

The second was that of Rufus Crashaw. 

Here was a discovery indeed. Madeline pondered 
over it so long, that Minna said deprecatingly: “Have I 
done wrong, my fraulein?” 

Madeline put down the slip of paper. 

“We will not go into the right or wrong of your ad- 
venture, Minna. What you have done would be wrong, 
nine cases out of ten. But at least you have not dis- 
pleased me. 1 have a strong reason for wishing to know 
as much as I can of this lady, the Princess Sacha Orloff. 
My reason is an honest one, and it concerns another 
more than myself. If I did not know that I could trust 
you, I should not say this to you nor allow you to do as 


300 


MOINA 


you have done. But I tell you now frankly, that j^'ou 
have done me a service." 

"And ma)^ I still serve in the same way? I am sure I can, 
help my fraulein, and since it is for a good reason — ah, 
listen." She went on eagerly. "I have served you, and well 
I hope, for nearly three years. Before then I was much 
abroad. I saw much of strange doings among the great 
people. When I came to you, fraulein, I learned very 
soon, that now I had a mistress who was a true lady, 
who lived all her life in the open da3^ All has been 
right, all has been true. Now when w© meet this madam 
the princess, what do I see? Ah, such a difference. I 
see some things and I hear more from the French 
woman. I could tell my fraulein much. I could tell 
her — " 

But Madeline interrupted her with a gesture. 

‘Not now, Minna,” she said; "we will talk of this 
again. I want to be alone.” 

When Minna was gone, she sat down to her desk again 
and began to write, smiling now and then at the thought 
of Minna’s acuteness and knowing that for the rest of 
the battle she had a stanch ally close at hand. 


CHAPTER XLVII 


A heart’s awakening 

Captain Fernand received the summons of the Princess 
Sacha from the hands of Margot, while he sat in the 
study with Mr. La Croix — read it with an impassible face, 
and asked permission to write a reply then and there. It 
was an. odd reply, containing neither date, address nor 
signature, and it did not take long to pen it. 

Selecting a small sheet of paper from the well-stocked 
desk, the captain wrote the one word — “Yes" — in neat Ro- 
man letters like the smoothest print. He did not seek 
to see the messenger, but when Margot had carried away 
his brief reply, he drew his chair close to that of Miles 
La Croix, and silently placed the letter of the princess 
before him. 

He took it up, adjusted his spectacles, and read it 
without a word. It was written in a caustically polite 
strain. 

"Madam the princess was not at all satisfied with her 
meeting with Captain Makofski. Naturally it was some- 
thing rare to meet a countryman in America, and one 
too, who came from her own city, who knew those whom 
she knew. She had many things to ask of him. Doubt- 
less he could tell her much that was interesting. Would 
he come to her at the earliest moment possible? He 
must not refuse her this. In Russia it would have been 
her’s to command, and his to obey. She should consider 
herself in Russia, and command his presence in her 
salon at eight o’clock of the following evening.” 

301 


302 


MOIN^ 


Thus ran the letter, and when he had read it, Miles 
La Croix put it down with a frown upon his face. 

"What are you going to do?” he asked. 

"She commands, you see, and has made it very easy 
to accept* and to signify my obedience." He moved his 
hand toward the letter and Miles La Croix took it up 
again. 

There was a postscript as follows: "Pray waste no 
words in accepting or refusing. Write, and send by my 
messenger, one word — yes or no." 

"I wrote the one word, ‘yes,’” said the captain, as La 
Croix again put down the letter. 

The frown still rested upon the old man’ s face.' "That 
woman,” he said slowly, "if I have understood right, is 
the one whom you may have reason to fear. ” 

"Yes.” 

"And yet you go. ” 

"It is my wisest course, I am sure, and my safest. 
That letter as you see, is a command. It carries an un- 
dercurrent of meaning. Still, pardon me, I have been 
too hasty. If I pay this visit, and if evil comes of it, it 
will be most embarrassing to you. I should have con- 
sulted you.” He got up and paced about the room as if 
mentally disturbed. 

"You should not go,” said La Croix with decision. 

"You think so?" 

"Yes.” 

Makofski resumed his seat near the old man, whose 
eyes were glittering while his cheeks glowed with ex- 
citement. 

"I have written too hastily, perhaps, that I would 
come; I can recall that assent, but it will entail a pen- 
alty, a penalty that I would risk much to avoid.” 

"What penalty?” 

"The loss of your society, sir. Banishment from your 


A HEARTS AWAKENING 


303 


roof. If Madam Orloff is what I fear, I can not refuse 
to obey her and remain here. That would be to sub 
ject you to danger. I should be watched and you do 
not want your house spied upon, I take it. It would be 
ruinous to you. May I speak plainly, without fear of 
giving you offense?’* 

“Go on.’’ 

“Madam Orloff, whom I had looked upon as an enemy, 
is brought to see me by your friends, Lugas and Cra- 
shaw, in the- character of a revolutionist, or at least as 
a sympathizer with revolutionists; I will not ask you 
why, for I think I know their reason; they doubted me. ’’ 

“Wait," cried the old man. “Yes, you are right. 
They feared that you were not — not yourself, not Makof- 
ski in reality — only some one personating him. They 
brought the princess in the hope that she might unmask 
you if you were an impostor.’’ 

"Ah! ’’ Makofski threw back his head and laughed. 

"But they doubt the princess a little also. And if you 
go to her now, they will become yet more suspicious.’’ 

“I see! They will say that we are both spies, and 
that she recognized me quite too readily.” 

“Something like that.” 

"The case is here, my friend. If I refuse to go to 
this lady, I must leave your house. I must hide myself 
anew, and this time it will be even more difficult than be- 
fore. Besides, if I go away thus, I leave you — yes, and 
your friends, in a measure open to suspicion. In short 
if the princess is a spy, and I flee from her, I am lost, 
and you suspected. If I go to her, run the gauntlet, 
baffle her, or convince her that I am an ally, everything 
remains the same, only I must be on my guard in the 
future. ” 

“I wish that you would join us, Makofski.” 

"And your associates — they do not.” 


304 


MOINA 


■'They will when they know you better.” 

Captain Fernand laughed the easy, confident laugh of a 
man who was secure in his own strength. Clearly he 
understood this old man, with his flashes of excitement 
and his varying moods. The argument was long^ and 
while the captain seemed to concede point after point, it 
ended in what he had fully intended it to do, as if he 
were doing it at the urgent request of his host. 

At last Captain Makofski, with much reluctance, con- 
sented to allow his host to bring him before the mem» 
bers of the next meeting, as a candidate for admittance 
to the brotherhood. 

"You must show them my position,” he stipulated. ‘T 
know so little of your work here, I will go into nothing 
blindly, and I desire on my side, to be clearly under- 
stood. There must be no concealment.” 

Miles La Croix was exultant. He told the news to 
Moina as she sat by his bedside, where he lay wide 
awake and his eyes streaming with excitement of what 
he considered a triumph and a gain to the great cause. 
He was growing more communicative toward Moina as 
the girl became more quietly receptive, and ceased to 
argue, to explain and to criticise. 

She listened to him now with no surprise, and with 
perfect acquiescence. 

If he had been the observant father of old, he would 
have seen how the girl’s face grew grave, and overspread 
with a look of disappointment. She was beginning to 
know Captain Fernand and to regard him more and more 
as a friend. 

"You are going to become one of the ‘group’, papa 
tells me,” she hazarded next day, while the two sat alone 
in the drawing-room awaiting the coming of her father 
and tea-time. 

"Yes, unless I am rejected,” he answered lightly. 


A HEARTS AH^AKENING 


305 


"You must be lenient with me, Miss La Croix. lam not 
an enthusiast. I shall have to grow in grace." 

"Do you mean,” she asked eagerly, "that you do not 
love the cause?" 

"I do not know the cause. I — " 

"Then why, why did you promise to join them?” 

"Why? Really, I suppose it was owing partly to the 
pressure of circumstances. I have no strong convictions, 
but my heart is warm toward all poor, all oppressed hu- 
manity, and then it was greatly for your father’s sake. 
I am glad to be allied to anything that is dear to him, 
and to you.” 

"To me?” She threw back her head and her eyes 
flashed upon him. "Don’t say dear to me, it is detesta- 
ble. Oh, yes, I thought it good and holy once. I was 
proud of papa’s connection with it. But I was ignorant 
then — a poor fool! And my poor father! He is its slave. 
Some day he will be its victim. Oh, why do you join 
them?” She had risen in her excitement, and now she 
started and came to a sudden stop. "What am I say- 
ing?” she said; "1 think I am losing my senses!” She 
turned away, and then suddenly faced him. "Will you 
forget this?” she asked brokenly; "I forgot myself. I 
did not — ” She stopped short. 

"Are you about to say that you did not mean it?" he 
asked gravely. 

"No, I will not say that.” 

"Pray, calm yourself. Miss La Croix, and let me assure 
you that every word that you have uttered shall be to 
me, as if I were-oath bound; yes, more sacred, if possi- 
ble. I am glad to know your feelings, and I beg you 
to trust me fully.” 

"No, not when you have become one of them.” 

"Before, then. Will you not talk with me again upon 
this subject? And pray, calm yourself now. Your father 

Motna — 20 


306 


MOINA 


may join us at any moment. I can help you, I am sure 
I cap help you. As for your father — ” 

The sound of a closing door caused them both to start. 
"When may I talk with you again?" he asked hastily. 

"To-night, perhaps, or — " 

His countenance fell. "Not this evening,” he said 
regretfully. "I must go out. I have promised — " 

"Hush!” she exclaimed, and with the word, the door 
opened and admitted Miles La Croix. During the rest 
of that day, there was a lightening of the cloud upon 
Moina’s brow. She was grave still, and very thoughtful, 
seeming to have ample food for solitary reflection. But 
if Madeline could have seen her face to-day, she would 
have said, "She has found something to cheer her or com- 
fort her. The world is not so dark as yesterday." 

Miles La Croix shut himself up in his study after din- 
ner, and Captain Fernand joined him there for a short 
time. 

As she was about to leave the empty drawing-room — 
unaccountably dreary, for some reason, she had found it 
— Moina met him at the door. He was dressed for the 
street, and carried his hat and a light cane in his well- 
gloved and shapely hand. 

"What!" she exclaimed in her surprise, "you are going 
out?" And then she saw that he carried a letter in his 
hand. 

"Yes," he said, without seeming to notice her sudden 
change of countenance, "it seems that I must. I will be 
quite safe, and I expect to be back early. I was seeking 
you — about to ask of you a favor.” 

"A favor?" she faltered. 

"It is only this: I wish, if I may, to leave this letter 
in your hands. You perceive it is not addressed. Un- 
der this envelope is another. If I am not present to- 
morrow at the breakfast hour, will you remove this outer 


A HEARTS AIVAKENING 


307 


wrapper, and send the inclosure at once, by a district 
messenger? It is fully addressed. One thing more: do 
not speak of this to your father, I beg. It would make 
him uneasy, perhaps, and he is already exceedingly nerv- 
ous.” 

She took the letter and bowed her head, but no words 
came, and he saw her face growing pale. 

"I beg you not to be uneasy, ” he said. "This is only a 
precaution; I do not apprehend danger." 

"And yet — ” She held up the letter and said no more. 

"That, I repeat is a precaution. A carriage is at the 
door. I shall not leave it until I have reached my des- 
tination. No harm could possibly reach me there. 
And I shall return in the same way. In the morning you 
will give back my letter, and I may be able to amuse you 
with some account of my mission. And now — ’’ he stood 
silently regarding her for a moment, then suddenly held 
out his hand — "fancy me going out to battle, and wish 
me success. " 

"I wish you success,” she said tremulously — "success 
and safety.” He smiled as he turned at the stair-head, 
and she answered the smile. But when the street door 
had closed upon him, she went back to her own boudoir, 
the letter clasped tightly in her hand and the shadow 
upon her brow and in her eyes once more. 

Miles La Croix retired early that night, and Moina sat 
beside him and mutely stroked his hand, letting sleep 
come as it would — forgetting him, almost, so absorbed was 
she with her own thoughts. An hour passed and then an- 
other, the eyes of the old man still wide open and sleep- 
less. He was not restless, however. Instead, he was 
almost smiling, absorbed, like Moina, with his own 
thoughts. 

As the hours grew late it was Moina who grew rest- 
less. And when her father slept she began to move 


808 


MOWA 


about the room — to pace to and fro — to lift a corner of 
the curtain and peer down into the street below. Mid- 
night struck. Her father slept on while her own agita- 
tion increased. Going to the bedside she would put out 
a hand as if to waken the sleeper; then she would draw 
back, and start and listen, as some street sound was 
borne to her eager ears. 

So another long hour passed. And now her watch at 
the window was almost constant. At last she could bear 
the suspense no longer. She went again to the bedside. 
She had turned down the lights until the objects about 
the room were but dimly discernible. As she moved 
swiftly forward, twixt anxiety and sudden determina- 
tion, her foot struck against a footstool, and it was 
thrust against a frail reading-stand which held a heavy 
open book. Down came the stand and book with a crash. 
The accident seemed to calm her but it disturbed the 
sleeper, who turned in his bed and began to mutter, but 
without waking. 

Moina stood still for a moment, with a hand pressed 
against a loudly beating heart. There was something 
she was burning to know — a question she was longing 
to ask. Any other question she might have put to him 
as he slept, and been very sure of her answer. But no^ 
this question — not this. For the sake of others she had 
taught herself to wrest hateful secrets from the lips of 
a sleeping father. For her own sake she could not — she 
could not. 

Miles La Croix had fallen asleep, thinking of his com- ’ 
ing argument with Lugas and Crashaw, and of the an- 
nouncement he should make. There would be opposi- 
tion, he well knew, and warm discussion. He was eager 
for it all. He had decided what he should say, and as 
slumber overcame him, he was rehearsing the scene for 
his own pleasure. “You mistake, sirs," Moina heard him 


A HEARTS AIVAKENIHG 


309 


say, his voice becoming more distinct as he went on. "He 
has been perfectly frank with me. I know where he 
went. He showed me her letter." 

"Her letter! ” Moina, stopping to rescue the fallen 
book, sprang suddenly erect again. 

"How can I guess what she wanted. A woman like 
that," he went on; "and he told me to tell you. That 
man does not fear you, and as for madame 1 a princess — " 
The hands of the. sleeper were thrown out as if in sig- 
nificant gesture. "Eh, what’s that? Both enemies, 
spies! Met before, you say?" He threw himself vio- 
lently across the bed and then, as if awakened by the 
rage of his dream, sat suddenly erect and looked about 
him with wide-open eyes. 

Moina stood still. She knew that her father was 
awake, that she ought to go to him. But her feet seemed 
leaden, and in her ears rang the words "enemies, spies, 
madame la princess.” In her mind one thought drove 
out all else. Fernand Makofski, who had sought refuge 
under her father’s roof from danger that might lie in 
wait anywhere outside, forgot the danger, or braved it 
recklessly, at the bidding of Madame la Princess Orloff. 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


WHO LAUGHS LAST 

It was a little past the hour when Captain Makofski 
presented himself in the boudoir of Princess Sacha. 

"I sent for you, yes, captain,” she said, "and I am 
greatly your debtor for this pleasure.” 

He bowed and seated himself, with the cool air of 
a man who, having not the least personal interest in the 
occasion or its object, is quite at the disposal of the 
lady. If Captain Makofski had known the Princess 
Sacha very well, indeed he could not have chosen a surer 
way of ruffling her composure, had he wished to accom- 
plish such a result. 

Finally she spoke again. ‘T fear that my request was 
not to your liking. Captain Makofski. You are wonder- 
ing, of course, why I saw fit to know you yesterday.” 

“It was very good of you.” 

"It was not so meant, I- assure you. But I will explain. 
When I was told that a Russian exile was here, I was 
naturally a trifle interested, even before I knew that 
the gentleman, in whose company you saw me yester- 
day, as well as his friend, Rufus Crashaw, wished us to 
meet. You may be aware of their reasons.” 

“They were skeptical as to my identity. They hoped 
to confound me through you, or to confirm myuncorrob- 
Drated statement, I believe,” he said negligently. 

“Exactly so. I have said that I wish to see you. Cap- 
fain Makofski. For this I had a reason." 

“Yes?” 


JVHO LAUGHS LAST 


311 


"I did not know the motive of the two men. I did 
not know whether my identification would help or hjart 
Fernand Makofski, the exile. And so I said to myself, 
I will be cautious. Perhaps it will be well to feign 
ignorance. I may be able to serve Makofski best if I 
meet him as a stranger. You will perceive that I set 
out with the desire to be of use, if possible.” Here the 
smile became a soft little laugh. ‘‘For — how oddly 
things come about in this odd , little world we inhabit ; 
over there, in Russia, before his banishment to Siberia, 
I knew Fernand Makofski very well.” * 

She had lowered her eyes again, for just a moment be- 
fore firing this shot, the better to emphasize it later. 
But the smile died out of her face, and for a moment the 
two sat silently regarding each other. And now it was 
he who was smiling; it was he who spoke first. 

‘‘I can hardly forgive myself,” he said, ‘‘for having 
caused you, madame la princess, even a passing disap- 
pointment. But as you have made it easy for me to ask 
the question, permit me: Do I fill the role of Captain 
Fernand Makofski acceptably?” 

The face of madame la princess would have furnished 
a superb study in expression. Amazement, incredulity, 
anger, and finally something bordering upon admiration, 
flashed across her face. Slowly she pushed back her 
chair; slowly she arose. 

‘‘Captain Makofski, could he see and pardon the mas- 
querade, could not but admire the manner in which it is 
carried out! Such sang froid, not to use a harsher name, 
is beyond praise. May I ask the object of this imper- 
sonation? ” 

The man before her dropped his careless smile and 
lounging attitude. He sat erect, and his face became 
coldly inscrutable. 


312 


MOINA 


“Let us call a truce, madame, “ he said. “You have 
sent for me. 1 am here. Wherefore?" 

“What!” The princess recoiled a step and the hot 
blood flashed into her face. “This is insufferable!” she 
cried. “Wherefore? why have I sent for you? I will tell 
you, monsieur. You, who call yourself Fernand Makof- 
ski — I have sent for you to tell you that you are an impos- 
tor; that Fernand Makofski, who was once my friend, 
and a true man, is languishing in a Siberian dungeon, 
or lying in a Siberian grave. Such men do not escape 
the clutches of the tyrant! And you — who are you, and 
why have you dared —how have you dared assume the 
name of a Russian martyr?” 

“That I might watch over and protect other martyrs, 
perhaps," he said with dignity. “Madam, compose 
yourself. Surely you have something more to say that 
is more to the purpose than all this?” His coolness was 
like fuel to flame. 

“More to the purpose? Yes, if it is more to the pur- 
pose to tell you that I mean to unmask you, to denounce 
you! ” 

“And to whom?” The coolness of the man; the un- 
wavering gleam of the eye behind their sheltering glasses ; 
the attitude so firm, and so self assured ; more than all 
perhaps, a something in the voice, struck through her 
wrath and startled her into silence for a moment. When 
she spoke again it was in a calmer tone. She knew that 
she had a more than ordinary foe to deal with. 

“To the man you have imposed upon, probably for 
some base end: to Miles La Croix.” 

“Ah ! to him? And since when has madame the prin- 
cess felt so keen an interest in Miles La Croix and his 
affairs? ” 

“That need not concern you. It will also interest the 
police to learn the truth about you.” 


WHO LAUGHS LAST 


313 


"You think so? well, perhaps you are right. And 
your friends, Messrs. Lugas and Crashaw? what of them?” 

"They will need but a hint. They suspect you 
already. ” 

"Say the)^ did suspect me. Thanks to you, madam, 
they suspect me no longer. And how may I ask do you 
intend to explain your own course? You have recog- 
nized me, claimed me as Fernand Makofski, an acquaint- 
ance, almost a friend. How will you unsay this? Re- 
flect madam.” 

"Don’t think I am unprepared for that,” she said; "I 
shall tell them — I can afford to be candid with you — that 
all I did was a snare to lead you on, to get you to com- 
mit yourself, to entangle yourself hopelessly.” 

"Good. Now for the sake of the argument, let us sup- 
pose this done. You have denounced me. It becomes 
my turn. You are possibly aware that your loyalty is 
doubted in some quarters? You are, it is feared, 
secretly devoted to the Russian government.” 

"Absurd ! ” 

"It is not I who believe this of course, but others. 
Well, you denounce me. I denounce you. I tell those 
who may be called to judge between us that you sent for 
me and found me opposed to you. As you know Cap- 
tain Makofski so well, you no doubt will remember that 
there was and still is a fraction who declared him loyal ; 
and that he always denied the charge of nihilism. Find- 
ing me then opposed to you, that is to say, not an emis- 
sary to the Russian police, you turn upon me, for your 
own safety. You will say that all you have done was 
a snare for me. But to minds already tortured with sus- 
picion, that tale will sound improbable. Unless you can 
prove — prove mind you — that you are loyal to the cause, 
you will not destroy me, madam, but yourself.” 

"Do your worst!” the princess said; "you have un- 


314 


MOINA 


done yourself. Whatever I might have done — that is 
past. I shall denounce you. I shall unmask you." 

"You have another object." 

"You think so?" sneeringly. 

"I am sure of it. It was, perhaps, to offer me an alter- 
native, to make terms, that you sent for me." 

"You presume quite too much," she said coldly; "I 
should have asked you first, perhaps, what was your 
motive in fastening yourself upon the La Croix — " 

"Go on, madam." 

"In taking upon yourself the name of Fernand Makof- 
ski — " 

"Proceed." 

"Yes, why have you forced yourself into the La Croix 
household? " 

"Forced myself? Not at all. I am, I believe, a very 
welcome guest. Only this evening I proposed to seek 
other quarters and was overruled in no moderate terms." 

"Oh, have that as you will. No doubt Moina La Croix 
finds the society of a Russian officer charming. She — " 

"Madam, we will leave the name of that young lady 
out of the conversation; it has no place in it." This 
time there was unmistakable sternness in his voice. 

"Ah! Then it was on her account?" At last she had 
found a vulnerable point, she thought exultingly. At 
last she had broken that tantalizing calm. "That now 
would have been a different affair; have put another face 
upon things. I might not have interfered." 

He was silent. 

"Ah, but I see you are awake at last. Well, let me 
render good for ill. In return for what you have not 
told, 1 tell you the name of the man she is to marry. 
It is Rufus Crashaw." 

With one quick stride he was close beside her, grasp 
ing her jeweled arm with a grip of steel. 


IVHO LAUGHS LAST 


315 


"Woman," he said between set teeth, "are you telling 
me the truth?" 

And now both faces were pale. 

"Insolent impostor! Ahl I have had enough of this! 
Leave me! Go! Go at once! Whoever you are, 
whatever you are, I have done with you. Before sunrise 
to-morrow the police, Crashaw, Lugas and the La Croix, 
father and daughter— all shall know that you are not 
Fernand Makofski — that you are a spy, an assassin, per- 
haps. Go, I say go!" 

The nameless one was himself again. 

"Gladly as I would go, madam, I have yet a duty to 
perform." 

"Go, I tell you." 

"I might take you at your word, and so avenge myself. " 

She made a furious gesture, and sprang toward the 
bell. 

"Madam La Princess, neither now or at any other time 
will you ^denounce^ me, or in any other way interfere 
with my plans, for in doing so you would destroy your 
own hopes, baffle your dearest wishes, render your visit 
to America, and its real object of no avail." 

She caught her breath quickly, 

"In heaven’s name,” she cried, "what are you? who 
are you?" 

"I am the one man," he said slowly, "and the only 
man, who can help you to a knowledge of the truth 
concerning Basil Petralowski. Look, this farce has 
gone far enough. It was not of my seeking.” 

He let go her hands, and as on the day of his interview 
with Miles La Croix, removed the disguising wig, beard 
and spectacles, standing thus before her with a look of 
severity upon his face. 

"You!" gasped the princess, after a long, incredulous 
stare, and with dilating eyes and pallid cheeks; "You! " 


CHAPTER XLIX 


FRANK PRICE SPEAKS 

On the morning that followed the interview between 
the Princess Sacha and the strange personage whom we 
will continue to call Fernand Makofski, a little group 
was gathered in one of the private rooms of St. Luke’s 
Hospital, where Frank Price lay. 

Near the bed, on the side opposite the nurse, sat two 
others — one, a small man with an expressionless coun- 
tenance — the other, a large man, with a benevolent ex- 
pression, who sat in the background, and who Was in 
fact, a policeman in plain clothes, our friend Bates. 
The small man held in his hand a voluminous memo- 
randum. Glancing at this, as if to refresh his memory 
he said: "You think he is quite able to talk to-day, 
doctor?" He spoke low and the physician replied in 
the same tone: 

"Yes." 

"I am going to speak about the night on Avhich you 
were hurt, Frank," began Little Norton. "And I will 
tell you right here you need not fear that you are going 
to be blamed for anything that may have happened. 
We are all your friends and we hope, among us, to be 
able to find out something that will be of benefit to — " 
he hesitated and then concluded, "to your mother and 
yourself. " 

"Yes, sir," answered the boy in his husky whisper, 
which they had to follow closely to fully understand. 

"Do you remember all that happened that day?" 

316 


FRANK PRICE SPEAK 


317 


“Yes, sir. I have thought it all over and over. ’’ 

“You took a basket of flowers to a house — " 

“No,” he said, with a look of regret and contrition 
fixed upon his face, “no, sir. I am very sorry, sir, but 
I didn’t take in the flowers. It was another boy." 

Little Norton continued to smile reassuringly. 

“Ah! That was the way of it,” he said. “Well, 
never mind. What was the name of this other boy?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“Nor where he lived?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Well, well, Frank, you just tell us what you can about 
this boy; where you met him and how he came to take 
the basket. Don’t hurry nor get excited; it’s all right.” 

Again the nurse moistened the boy’s lips and changed 
his position slightly, and then he began: 

“I never saw the boy until the day I took the basket 
to that house .on Fifth Avenue; but I remember just 
how it all was because,” reflectively, “he seemed a little 
green, I thought. There was two or three of us started 
out of the store together, but we separated afore we’d 
got far. When J was crossin’ over, goin’ to Broadway 
to the avenue, I got into a crowd at the corner and had 
to stop a minute. It was there I met the boy. There 
was a card stuck on the end of the basket with the 
name of the man it was for and the number of his house. 
An’ I remember noticing that it was written very big 
and black, so it was easy to read. He was a little 
feller, littler than me, and he kind o’ looked up good- 
natured like, an’ laughed, an’ says he, don’t git mad. 
I didn’t mean nothin.’ I seen the name on that card 
jist as I was standin’ here, and then I took another 
peek to see if I wasn’t mistaken. Why, I know that 
place right well. I’ve got an uncle livin’ there.’ We got 
acrost the street, and he kept walkin’ along beside me. 


318 


MOINA 


And then he told me about his uncle, wUo was some 
kind of a head servant there, and how he wanted so much 
to go in and see that beautiful house, and his uncle would 
never let him, and he’d just like to pop in with me and 
surprise him.” 

Again he paused and the doctor said: “Don’t try to 
tell too much, Frank, just tell about the flowers." 

“He was dressed first rate," Frank resumed, almost as 
if he had not heard, “and he had some candy in his 
pocket and he took out some money out of another 
pocket and kind o’ jingled it as he talked. When we 
had got most to the house, he was a-showin’ me the way, 
he turned round kind o’ quick like, and says, ‘Look 
here, you let me take that basket into the. house just 
for a joke on uncle, and to see the house inside, and 
then the laugh’ll be on him. I’ll make him give me 
something for a treat. He’s real liberal. And then you 
and me’ 11 go snooks with it.’ " 

“You let him take the basket at the foot of the 
step?" asked Norton. 

“Yesj sir.” 

“Did he stay in the house long, talking with his uncle?” 

“No, sir. He came out quick, looking kind of scared, I 
thought. ‘Let’s hurry,’ he says; ‘there’s a party there, 
and they hustled me out.’ 

“And so you hurried away together. And he left you 
soon, did he not?” 

“Yes, sir." 

“Did he ask you not to tell that he took the flowers? 
And did he ask you to meet him again at the corner 
where you were hurt?" 

“Yes, sir. He said we would have a little supper to- 
gether. " 

“Now, Frank, try and tell me just how you got hurt. 
You met and started to cross the street?” 


FRANK PRICE SPEAKS 


319 


"Yes, sir." 

‘ Did you see, before you started to cross, a little old 
man who stood near you?” 

The boy struggled as if to lift himself, and his eyes 
were distended with excitement and terror. 

"Yes, oh yes! Have they caught him? The wicked 
old man! He did it. It was not the wagon. 1 didn’t 
see him until it was too late. I saw his eyes glare 
right into mine, and then he struck. Oh, how it hurt, 
and then — I didn’t know any more.” 

"That is enough, Frank.” The detective shut up 
his note-book. "No; we have not found him yet, but 
we shall, never fear. You would know him, would you 
not?” 

“Yes, sir; yes, I would know him." 

Little Norton took from his pocket a picture, none 
other than an enlarged copy of the tiny likeness of the 
little old man taken by his detective camera at the door 
of the Princess Orloff’s apartment. 

"Did he look like that, Frank?” 

"That is him! That’s him, sir. He stood at the 
corner just like that; and that’s his cane, and all! " 

Little Norton placed another picture before him. 

“And do you know that" 

"Yes! yes. It’s the boy. Oh, where did you get 
them ?” 

"Queer things happen sometimes, Frank. Would you 
like to see that boy?" 

"Yes, I would. didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t 
know that old man.” 

Confiding, honest childhood, full of faith in its kind. 

Little Norton and Officer Bates left the hospital to- 
gether, to separate outside its door and hasten in 
opposite directions, like men who were intent on urgent 
matters. 


320 


MOIN/1 


Before they separated, Norton put a key into his com- 
panion’s hand. 

‘ Here is the key of the room,” he said. “Go straight 
there and get the bundle of photographs. You will 
find them already upon the desk. See that they are dis- 
tributed, that every officer has one or sees one. Now, 
we have got something to work on. If we can catch 
that old fox, we can hold him.” 

“With these pictures to hel*p us,” said Bates, “it will 
be very strange if we don’t run him in." 


CHAPTER L 


COUNTER-PLOTTING 

Notwithstanding the fact that he had left the presence 
of madam la princess at an early hour, Captain Makof- 
ski did not return to the La Croix roof until it was nearing 
dawn. 

A pale girl, sleepless and watchful at her window alone, 
saw him enter, and then threw herself upon her couch, 
burying her face in the pillow in an attitude of misery, 
never assumed by those who seek or hope for sleep. 

The packet which he had entrusted to Moina, he found 
beside his breakfast plate. Moina herself did not ap-^ 
pear. 

"She had not slept very well," Margot explained. "And 
4*er head ached a little. She would be better soon." 

Makofski glancing from the messenger to the packet 
in his hand, looked anxious and seemed inclined to pon- 
der. Miles La Croix scarcely heeded message or mes- 
senger. He was full of another subject. When Margot, 
having served their breakfast withdrew, Makofski lightly 
touched upon his visit of the previous evening. 

"After all it was nothing. A test perhaps, and more 
than all a desire to ask for information concerning a 
certain Russian — a friend who had been suddenly lost 
sight of, such things happen sometimes there. In fact 
there's little to tell. I gain this, however, I need no 
longer remain in seclusion. I think there is nothing to 
fear from Madam the Princess Orloff." 

La Croix was satisfied with this and did not follow up 
Moina — 21 3^1 


322 


MOIN/1 


the subject. Instead he broached a subject of his own. 
To expedite matters he explained, he had sent for 
Lugas and Crashaw; he expected them soon and he 
meant to have everything settled — to have Makofski 
one of them without delay. 

"You will meet with opposition,” said Makofski, "but 
I leave all in your hands. Understand, that if I join 
you it must not be on sufferance. While I am willing 
to be of use among you, I , do not beg the honor, and 
I confess no especial enthusiasm. I have no griev- 
ance. ” 

Half an hour before the two revolutionists appeared 
upon the scene, Makofski, availing himself of his ex- 
tended freedom, went out, "to stroll about the city and 
become acquainted with it,” he said. 

The interview between La Croix and his two visitors 
was a long one, and he did indeed meet with opposition, 
strong and well sustained up to a certain point. 

Neither of the two displayed too much surprise or curi- 
osity when told that the princess had sent for Makofski, 
and that the latter had obeyed her summons. And the}^ 
went away leaving Miles La Croix well pleased with the 
result of the interview. They had made but one stipula- 
tion: There were certain matters in progress that 
must be completed before Makofski became one at their 
counsels. But as on other occasions the last word'had 
not been spoken in the little room behind the studio. 

Crashaw and Lugas walked to the little oblong park 
not far from the house, and there sat down. 

"We may as well stop here,” Lugas had said, "for 
one of us must go back.” 

"I knew there was something on your mind,” said Cra- 
shaw. "Your — instincts are very reliable. There is some- 
thing on my mind. I am going to see the princess. And 
you must go back to La Croix and get him to sign a 


COUNTER-PLOTTING 


333 


transfer putting the business we have in for a week 
hence, into the hands of another ‘group.* 

‘‘What! He won’t do it.” 

‘‘He will if he knows that to refuse will be to keep 
his Russian friend out a fortnight longer. Come — you 
know how to manage La Croix.” 

Ten minutes later Moina La Croix, having seen Cap- 
tain Makofski, Crashaw and Lugas leave the house, came 
down to the studio seeking her father. She pushed 
aside a heavy curtain and advanced to a tall screen which 
shut off her view of the inner door. Here she paused, 
startled by the sound of voices from the inner room. 
Then the words of the half heard sentence suddenly 
shaped themselves into meaning. She drew closer to 
the screen and bent forward listening intently. 


As soon as he had separated from Crashaw, M. Lugas 
hailed the first cab that crossed his path and drove 
straight to the hotel of the princess. 

The card which he sent up to the room of that lady 
bore the legend: 

“M. Lugas, Oculist.” 

And he added: ‘‘You may say that I have brought the 
eyeglasses that she wished to try,” 

If the Princess Sacha was displeased or anxious be- 
cause of this visit, she did not suffer it to appear when 
M. Lugas entered the dainty reception room and bowed 
before her. 

‘‘To what do I owe this honor, sir,” she said in the 
coldest of tones. 

‘‘Entirely to the fact that you saw fit to receive here 
the person who calls himself Captain Makofski.” 

“Well?” her eyes met him full. Her face was haughty. 
There was evident an open dislike in tone and look. 


324 


MOIhlA 


“You are undoubtedly willing to explain, madam?” he 
said. 

She regarded him a moment in haughty silence. “If I 
had only myself to consider, I should give you, sir, a 
very short and decisive negative. As it is, and more 
for the sake of the gentleman whom you mention than for 
my own, I will say this; I had two motives for sending 
for Captain Makofski; first, and least, you are aware 
that Captain Makofski, upon his trial, never admitted 
his connections with the nihilists. I wished to apply 
a little test, for I could readily see that you would not 
lose much time in making an ally of such a man as he. 
Was I not right?" 

“Perhaps. And this test of yours — did it succeed?” 

“About as I had expected. I was never one of those 
who believed in the loyalty of the captain. 1 am con- 
firmed in my belief. He was not what some of his ene- 
mies, even in the ranks of his chosen cause, would have 
made us believe; we need not hope to find an emissary 
of the Czar there, M. Lugas. ” 

“I am glad to hear it. You spoke of another reason?” 

“My other reason was strictly personal. There was a 
time when Captain Makofski knew one who — a friend. 
That portion of the interview which was of the deep- 
est interest to me was concerning this person.’ 

“And may I volunteer to hope that Captain Fernand 
Makofski was able to give you all the needful informa- 
tion? ” 

“All that he could tell was soon told. I was grateful 
for even so much. If I ever meet him again it will not 
be of my own seeking. And now is there need for any 
more words? I have identified him for you. Do you 
hope to find him useful to the cause?" 

“Captain Makofski confesses to very slight interest in 
our labors, still he has permitted his new friend. La Croix, 


COUNTER-PLOTTING 


325 


to present his name. Madam, we would like your very 
frank opinion. We can find no reason for refusing to 
receive him. He is clearly identified with us, and, he is 
not a man to be kept out of anything once he is accepted 
among us.” 

“What is there that he need be ‘kept out of?'” 

M. Lugas turned and took up his hat. 

“We need not enter into that,” he said. “The only 
question after all is that of identity, but that has been 
set at rest. We accept him uJ>on the distinct recognition of 
madam the princess. Whatever comes, madam, we hold 
you responsible for this man. And now I wish you good 
morning. It must be a matter of the gravest importance 
that brings me here again.” 

When the door had closed behind him she took a slow 
turn up and down. 

“What does he know or suspect?” she muttered. “That 
man disliked me before, now he hates me. It is war be- 
tween us from this day. Very good. I must be doubly 
on my guard now. And you, my friend ‘Makofski,’ is it 
hate or fear he feels for you? A little of both perhaps. 
I shall warn you my ‘Makofski,' and forewarned you 
know. " 


When Rene Savareis came to pay his almost daily 
visit, he found the princess awaiting him. A note to 
Fernand Makofski, sealed and addressed, lay at her 
elbow. 

She was somewhat preoccupied and made her wishes 
known like one not accustomed to question or contradic- 
tion. It was only after she had ceased speaking, and 
awaited his answer, which did not come readily, that she 
troubled herself to look attentively into his face. What 
she saw there caused her to grow grave. 

“My friend," she said with unusual sweetness, “you are 


326 


MOINA 


tiringr, I see, or playing the part of messenger. I have 
overtaxed your friendship.” 

"You know it is not that!” he burst out. “I have 
been glad to be even a postboy in your service, since it 
was between you and those you did not wish to receive 
here, but — ” He flushed and stopped short. 

"But you do not wish to be the bearer of a note to this 
man? Listen Rene. At a time less serious than this I 
might have answered you angril}-. I ran not afford to 
do so now. I need your friendship.” He started sud- 
denly, impulsively. ‘‘Wait. Let me finish. You know 
that I have identified Mr. La Croix^ guest as Makofski 
the Russian captain?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you know that I sent for this man to come here 
last evening?” 

‘‘Yes. Another branch of my general utility. I am 
Rufus V. Crashaw’s escape valve. I had it from him.” 

“From him? Ah, well, we will go back to that. I 
wonder if you know, too, that I was honored by a visit 
from M. Lugas this day?” . 

‘‘From Lugas? No I Has he dared! When you told 
him — when you forbade his visits! ” 

‘‘Nevertheless he came. He was much disturbed because 
I had received Makofski here, and we did not part ami- 
cably.” 

“Ah,” he sighed, “I am sorry for that. That man is 
dangerous, vindictive. I believe that he hates you. 
Sometimes I think he fears you as well.” 

“Well you say he is dangerous, and yet you talk of 
deserting me now when — ” 

“No!” he broke in, “not that. I belong to you first, 
to the cause after. ” 

She took up the letter and held it out to him. “Take 
that.” And when he had complied. “Now listen. That 


COUNTER-PLOTTING 


327 


man and Makofski and I are not friends. We may in the 
end be enemies. In the meantime there is a secret 
between us, and Makofski render me a great service. 
He is about to join the ^group,’ I believe.” 

“Yes.” 

"I believe that Lugas — yes, and Crashaw — mean mis- 
chief. If any harm happens that we, that I might have 
prevented, Makofski will believe me to have been in the 
plot against him. Some da}^ I will tell you why, and 
how. The man is nothing to me. The service he alone 
can render me is everythmg. 1 can say no more. Now 
will you serve me? Will you be my friend in need?” 

Instantly he had dropped on one knee, in graceful, 
foreign fashion beside her and touched her hands with 
his lips. 

“When Sacha Orloff needs a friend she will find that 
I can be something more than a transmitter of messages. 
I will take the letter — what more?” 

“Resume your old habits; be often at the La Croix; 
try to know Makofski, and let him see that you are, if 
need be, on his side.” 

“To hear is to obey.” 

He arose in obedience to her gesture and resumed his 
seat. “Is there anything else?” 

“No— yes; a question. You are, I know, in the confi- 
dence of Crashaw. Do you think you know him thor- 
oughly?” 

“Yes. Ever since my father’s death he has assumed 
the position of mentor. I have been a plastic pupil. 
He has no reason to doubt me — neither he nor Lugas. 
If they knew the truth they might not send me to you so 
freely, upon all sorts of pretexts. I have been careful 
not to let them guess that it is you I serve in my 
heart of hearts. ” 

“Ah, yes; you pass, clever Rene! I know, they even 


328 


MOIhlA 


half believe that you are secretly devoted to lovely 
Moina La Croix. I had just a glimpse of her that day. 
Let them still continue to think so, but there is one 
whom it may prove best to undeceive.” 

“Who is that?” 

A queer smile crossed her face. 

"Captain Fernand Makofski,” she replied. 


CHAPTER LI 


BLUDGEON VERSUS CANE 

Rene Savareis was as good as his word. Within a 
week he had resumed his old footing in the house of the 
La Croix. Wholly in the dark as to the motives of 
his fair commander, he yet worked her will and bided 
her time. 

He found Fernand Makofski, viewed in the light of 
their last words, a very agreeable companion. Their 
acquaintance progressed wonderfully. 

Moina too, welcomed him back among them. Since the 
night of his visit to the princess, there had been a change 
in her manner toward Makofski — a change to be felt 
rather than seen. She was more at her ease when Sava- 
reis made one of the number in the little drawing-room 
and this fact Makofski was not slow to perceive. 

Long before La Croix’ illness, it had suited the pur- 
pose of Rufus Crashaw to hint that he might find in 
Rene Savareis a possible suitor for his daughter. And 
the thought had pleased La Croix well. He had even 
hinted at it, in his turn, to his daughter. But Moina 
had only smiled in reply, and had remained as before 
upon the most friendly terms with Rene. 

In a moment of hunger for human sympathy, Rene had 
told to Moina the story of his love for the Princess 
Sacha, and its too evident hopelessness. Having such 
knowledge, Moina could afford to be frankly friendly 
with Rene. 

When Miles La Croix arose from his sick-bed the idea 

329 


330 


MOINA 


of a future, shared by Moina and Rene, had remained 
with him. And for different reasons no one had cared 
to undeceive him. 

With this thought in his mind and Rene once more an 
almost daily visitor in the studio and drawing-room, it 
is not strange that Miles La Croix should make it known 
to Makofski. , 

It came about quite naturally. Rene had just left them, 
after chatting an hour in the drawing-room with Moina 
and smoking a cigar in the studio, now the common 
haunt of Makofski and his host. Makofski had expressed 
his liking for the handsome fellow and followed it up 
by a request for further information concerning him. 

"He’s a sort of ward of Crashaw’s, ” La Croix had 
said; "he was an enthusiast in the ^cause.’ No, I never 
knew him well. But Rene has been much among us. 
Perhaps you have noticed that my daughter and he un- 
derstand each other. Yes, I am getting old, and it com- 
forts me to think that I shall leave her in such loyal, 
kindly hands, for it amounts to that. I have seen it 
from the first.” 

A long silence had followed this communication, and 
when Makofski spoke again, it was upon another sub- 
ject. He did not linger in the drawing-room in the 
evening but when Rene came again he greeted him with 
more than his usual cordiality and found much to say 
to him. Indeed, from that time he found opportunities 
for being often in the young man’s society. Something 
very like an intimacy sprang up between them. A close 
observer might well have fancied that the mysterious 
Russian was making a close study of Rene Savareis. 

As for Rene, before he fully realized the strength of 

the influence — the magnetism exerted by Makofski he 

w^as fairly under the spell. Something in his frank, 
spontaneous nature responded swiftly to the strong will 


BLUDGEON VERSUS CANE 


331 


and force of character which seemed bent on drawing 
him to itself. 

‘‘I hope you have nothing very ugly in store for him, 
in the denouement,” he said in the course of one of 
his verbal reports to the Princess Sacha. “I can’t help 
liking the man, and I have entirely forgotten to distrust 
him. He draws one somehow.” 

‘‘So you have felt that.” 

‘‘Yes. Have you?” 

‘‘A liitle. ” A queer smile flitted across her face. ‘‘But 
not as you do. You have no need to be jealous, my poor 
Rene. A woman does not enjoy being thus dominated.” 

‘‘You are a riddle to me,” said Savareis with a sigh. 
‘‘And so is Makofski. ” 

And so thinking, he yet found himself day by day 
loving the one and admiring the other, and instinctively 
trusting both. 

For two or three weeks after Makofski became iden- 
tified with the revolutionists, all went smoothly, or so it 
seemed. 

Miles La Croix grew daily more gracious to Rene, and 
more dependent on Makofski; Crashaw turned surly and 
kept aloof. Lugas, after a suitable interval of reserve, 
seemed to have been touched by the tidal wave of attrac- 
tion setting so strongly toward Captain Makofski and 
began to unbend, to seek his society and to find pleasure 
in it. 

As for Makofski, he received all this as a matter of 
course, as only his due, and met M. Lugas half-way at 
all points. 

For two or three weeks following the murder of poor 
Harvey, the papers kept up a running comment on the 
case. Sometimes they reported the police as upon a hot 


332 


MOINA 


scent, only to modify or utterly deny the same in the 
next issue. Sometimes they theorized and sometimes they 
flouted the police. At last one morning this paragraph 
appeared: "After following up many false clues, work- 
ing out and proving the impracticability of many therein, 
the police now believe, that the man Harvey, who was 
an Englishman, and who had only been a year in Amer- 
ica, was murdered by an enemy who followed him across 
the water for this purpose, and who may, by this time, 
be en route for England. It is said that the police have 
abandoned some of the old trails, and a new search will 
be prosecuted on the other side of the water!” On the 
evening of the day that saw this paragraph in print, 
there was a counsel at Miles La Croix. The "group,” 
after many days of inaction, had decided to resume the 
aggressive. 

When the council broke up, which was not until a late 
hour, Makofski, who had been carrying on an animated 
discussion with Dr. Lugas, accompanied him to the 
vestibule entrance and looked out. The night was fine 
and he was not inclined to sleep, he said; besides, he 
had been indoors all day. 

He took his hat, coat and slender cane and went out 
into the street with Lugas. 

Crashaw and Rene Savareis had gone on before. 

The two men went forward slowly, conversing with 
animation, Lugas leading the way, and his companion 
seemingly heedless whither he went, until they found 
themselves in a somewhat shabby and dimly lighted 
quarter, and Lugas himself called a halt. 

"I am taking you too far,” he said; "and this is nota 
pleasant part of the city. Can you find your way back? ” 

"Easily,” replied the other with confidence. 

And after a few more words the two separated, Ma- 
kofski going leisurely back as he came. 



THE ATTACK UPON CAPTAIN FERNAND.-Moina, p. 334. 





334 


MOIhlA 


The street seemed deserted. Only now and then was 
the stillness broken by sound or movement, but by and 
by the noise of wheels moving swiftly struck his ear — 
some belated cab of course — it came near and the rattling 
wheels seemed to revolve more slowly — arrived at its 
destination, perhaps. But no; the noise did not cease 
altogether. The cab came on slowly, slower yet, until just 
opposite him, at a point where two large buildings, one 
on either side of the way faced each other and blended 
their grim shadows, making a bridge of intense darkness 
where they fell. 

Into this shadow, pedestrian and cab passed together. 
Then the rattle of the wheels told of an increased 
pace. Something shot forward in the darkness just be- 
hind Makofski. There was a dull sound as of a blow, a 
sharp exclamation, another sound — this time a blow un- 
mistakably. Then the noise of running, a sharp but low 
call, the slam of a carriage door. Then wheels again, 
rolling swiftly now down the street, around a corner, 
away. 

This is what has happened in a moment — in less time 
than it takes to tell it. Captain Fernand, walking list- 
lessly, with seeming carelessness, but with head erect, 
eyes and ears alert, and grasping his slim cane reversed, 
gripped by the ferule end as one would grip a sword 
when awaiting the attack, hears a slight sound behind 
him. He swerves a little to the inner side just in time 
to receive a blow, swiftly, strongly dealt, directly upon 
the head, and another, with a cat like spring some one 
is upon him. There is the gleam of a knife in the air. 

Then the arm of Captain Fernand rises and descends 
once. A whizzing sound, a blow, a howl of pain. Then 
the pursuer becomes the pursued. The man who had 
thought to fell his victim with his iron-bound bludgeon, 
has thrown it from him and fled, a second blow from the 


BLUDGEON VERSUS CANE 


S35 


loaded cane falling upon him as he runs. The race is 
sliort. It ends in the cab which has stopped at the 
moment of attack. In an instant the fugitive is within, 
the whip descends, the vehicle is away. And Captain 
Fernand stands looking up and down the street alone — 
only for a moment however — only to make sure, first, 
that no cab is at hand, and that there has been no wit- 
riesses. And then he turns and without so much as a 
backward glance, resumes his homeward journey. There 
is no light visible when he reaches the house. None in 
the studio, none in the drawing-room. He goes quietly 
to his own room and having locked his door and turned 
on the light, proceeds to examine himself — first his gar- 
ments. The light top-coat had a long cut in the breast 
near the shoulder. He examines the frayed edges critically. 

“A keen blade,” he mutters. "No common weapon 
that; it scarcely touched me — and yet — ” He tossed the 
garment aside and held up his right hand. Across the 
back ran a long thin red line, from which the blood was 
oozing. 

“And I never felt that,” he said, wiping away the 
drops; ‘I wish he had spared me that; it will leave a 
mark for days.” 

He eyed it ruefully; it was only a scratch and yet it 
seemed to cause him actual annoyance. He went at 
once to his dressing-case and having washed the scarred 
hand, he dressed it carefully with a strip of plaster; 
then he removed the round-topped hat, which had been 
curiously indented by the blows dealt upon it. It did 
not look like a bit of armor; no one would suspect, 
viewing it from the outside, that it had perhaps saved 
a man’s life. But on closer inspection you could see 
that it was lined with a framework of steel, fine but 
firm. This framework was deeply indented, but it had 
broken the force of the blow.” 


336 


MOINA 


“Evidently,” soliloquized Captain Fernand, “that at- 
tack was meant for me. It was no chance encounter, 
and my assailant, I fancy, has the worst of it. Bah! 
It was a bungling affair. But it has taught me to 
sleep with closed doors, and to be on my guard. I am 
greatly obliged to — some one.” 

It was past midnight, and a man after a long walk and 
an exciting encounter might well be expected to feel 
fatigued, if not sleepy. But Captain Fernand did not 
retire. He smoked a cigar instead and consulted his 
watch from time to time, like a man about to keep an 
appointment. 

On the following morning, the chief of police found 
a note upon his desk, brief and signed only by a seem- 
ingly meaningless flourish. Its effect was to set all the 
available detective machinery in motion. 

“Look for a physician or surgeon who since one o’clock 
this A. M. has been called upon to attend a man — prob- 
ably small in stature, but very agile and muscular; 
who has a bruised or broken arm, shoulder or wrist, 
probably the right, with perhaps other hurts. Locate in- 
jured man if possible.” 


CHAPTER LII 


A SUCCESSFUL FAILURE 

While Captain Fernand smoked and pondered in his 
locked room, a light form glided down the passage, then 
started and hesitated a little as the gleam of light from 
above his door struck across her path. Only for a mo- 
ment, however; there was no sound from within, and 
this was not the first time that Captain Fernand had 
been known to “burn the midnight oil,” until midnight 
was long past. So Moina, after listening a moment, 
went swiftly on through the dusky passage. At the door 
of her father’s study she paused again; all was still, the 
house seemed sleeping. She opened the door with the 
key she had taken from her father’s room, and which 
she would replace when her search was ended, entered 
the room and in a moment had put her hand upon a 
small lamp placed there in readiness by herself. In an- 
other instant a light, dim but sufficient for her purpose, 
shone upon the desk, which she began to unlock with 
eager, trembling fingers. 

She was not long in finding and examining the books. 

She had grown used to this now, although of late, 
since the introduction of Fernand Makofski into the 
“group,” she had been deposed, and her place as secre- 
tary and amanuensis given to him. 

“Ah!” she murmured half-aloud, with her eyes riveted 
upon a newly written page, “it is worse than I thought, 
far worse, and I am so helpless.” She bowed her head 
upon her hands, and tears trickled through her fingers. 

337 


338 


MOIN^ 


She was, for the moment, overwhelmed with a sense of 
her own weakness. Then she lifted her head and brushed 
away her tears. “I am one against them all,” she said, 
‘‘but I will not give up.” She caught up a slip of paper 
and rapidly copied something from the page before her. 
Then she drew from her pocket a tiny bunch of keys she 
had taken from beneath her father’s pillow that night, 
for the first time. 

They fitted into sundry small drawers and snugly con- 
trived compartments; as she applied them, one after an- 
other, her face grew firmer, and her hand more steady. 

One by one she read the letters and papers, memo- 
randa and notes, and carefully replaced each — read with 
a growing horror in her face but still resolutely. 

She had reached the last drawer and was sitting with 
half a dozen letters before her on the open desk, when 
a slight sound caused her to start and look swiftly about 
her. The sound was repeated, and she bent hastily for- 
ward, blew out the light and with a swift spring reached 
the other side of the room farthest from the door, where 
a tall screen stood. She had only to move one panel 
slightly and conceal herself behind it, and even as she 
did so, she knew the door was opening slowly and that 
some one was within the room. The sounds made by the 
new-comer were slight, but Moina was alert, and listen- 
ing with bated breath. 

What did it mean? By standing very erect and slightly 
raising herself she could see through the fret-work at 
the top of the screen, and this she did. 

And now the hot angry blood surged up and over cheek 
and brow. Fear gave place to indignation. She clinched 
her hands, bit her lips, and, for an instant, it seemed as 
if she werq about to spring from her hiding-place and 
confront the intruder. 

Standing near her father’s open desk with a dark Ian- 


A SUCCESSFUL FAILURE 


339 


tern in his hand, its light, at the moment turned away 
from her place of concealment, and full upon the desk, 
stood Captain Fernand Make fski. He was looking about 
him in the coolest possible manner. But when he had 
swept the room with his dark lantern, his eye came back 
to the open desk and rested there, taking in everything: 
the letters lying thereon, the keys hanging in the lock- 
last opened by Moina, the lamp lately extinguished and 
still emitting a faint smoky odor. He placed his hand 
upon the lamp, and knew at once that it had just been 
extinguished. 

Seeing this the blood receded fromMoina^s face, leav- 
ing her pale again, but there was no sign that this fact 
had impressed him. He seated himself and began to 
glance at the letters, one after another. His eyes were 
keen and his hand was quick, and he had scanned and 
replaced three of the letters before Moina La Croix could 
decide upon any course of action. It was only when 
he had half risen and placed a hand upon the bunch of 
keys, that she suddenly dashed aside the screen and 
flung herself upon him like a young tigress, snatching the 
keys from his unresisting hand. 

"So, sir,” she panted, "is this the way you reward 
hospitality? A spy, a robber. What is the meaning of 
this. Captain Makofski. What right have you with 
those” — pointing to the desk and the scattered papers 
— you, my father’s guest.” 

"Miss La Croix, will you explain your presence herej” 
he said. 

"My presence! I, in my father’s house?” 

"In your father’s study, at midnight, and in the act 
of searching his desk — the desk which contains not his 
secrets only, but documents, fetters, memoranda of vital 
importance to others. These keys; I know he always 
keeps them about him; how did you obtain them? These 


340 


MOIN^ 


letters of a private nature, concern the business of the 
‘group,’ of which your father is the authorized chief. 
You have called me a spy. Miss La Croix. What is your 
position? Painful as it is to say, I have a duty to per- 
form in this house, because, as you have just reminded 
me, I am indebted to its master. You have chosen to 
call me a spy. Miss La Croixj be assured I am quite able 
to account to those who have a right to inquire into it, 
for my presence here. Are you prepared to explain 
yours; not to me — but to others?” 

“Toothers!” Poor Moina. The wrath died out of her 
face; she began to feel suddenly weak and helpless — a 
very woman. “To others? To whom?” 

“To your father. To Mr. Savareis. To all those whose 
secrets are here” — putting a hand upon the desk. “Ask 
yourself. As a man who would be loyal to his cause, can 
I pass in silence what I have seen here to-night?” 

“I am here to-night. Captain Makofski, because I have 
learned from a hint not intended for my ears, that a cer- 
tain man is to become the subject of your machinations. ” 

“Mine!” 

“Pardon. I should have said a sacrifice of the ‘circle.’ 
It’s the same thing I want to save this man; I want 
to warn him; I have broken his bread. Some were in 
this desk, I believe; there was a memorandum of in- 
structions, and his present address which Ido not know. 

I was searching for these. Is that enough?” She lifted 
her face defiantly. 

“Not quite. Tell me the name of this man?” 

“The name of this man is Elias Lord.” 

“And why do you wish to protect this particular man?” 

“Because I have accepted the hospitalities of his 
house. Because he is the friend of my friend. Because 
he has suffered enough at the hands of the ‘circle.’” 

“What has he suffered?” 


A SUCCESSFUL FAILURE 


341 


"His life has been attempted, or so I believe." 

He drew a quick breath. 

"You have placed your life at my mercy, do you know 
it? For your own sake let me implore you not to show 
yourself to these men as you have shown yourself to me.” 

"What! You think they would dare harm me — me. 
Miles La Croix’ daughter?" 

"They dare more than you think. You, who have seen 
so much, have you not seen that your father is little more 
than a tool in their hands? If you will not be prudent 
for your own sake, for your father’s sake have a care. The 
time may be nearer than you think when he will need 
you sorely." He caught up his flickering lantern; he 
seemed suddenly in haste to terminate the interview. 

"It is almost morning, Miss La Croix, and I will be 
as good as my word. You and I now seem on divergent 
paths, but we are not enemies, I trust. Once more I 
entreat you to be cautious. Trust me to keep your secret, 
and believe me, in spite of appearances I am always yours 
to command. Trust me — try me.” 

The door opened and closed softly. Moina arose and 
groped again for her little lamp. Lighthing it, and 
looking dazedly about her, she gathered up and replaced 
the letters and memoranda, and leaving all as she had 
found it went back to her own room as softly as she 
came, wondering if the past half-hour with its strange 
events, had not been all a dream. But no, the light 
still gleamed above his door, as she glided past it, 
almost holding her breath. 

Once in her room she pondered long and with fast 
beating heart as she recalled his words and hers. 

"What must he think of me!" she murmured at last. 
"I called him a robber, a spy, and it is all so simple. 
He heard me and followed me!" And then, after a 
time, she added: "He was very generous." 


342 


MOINA 


“A failure and a success,” said Makofski to himself 
as he locked himself in his own apartment, ‘‘At least 
I know now just what to think of Miles La Ctoix and 
his daughter. My position with reference to them is 
taken, and will be maintained. So she declares war 
upon us. A brave girl! A brave girl! As for Miles La 
Croix’ famous desk, its secrets are yet to be mastered.” 

A strange soliloqu)^, surely. Having indulged in it. 
Captain Fernand seated himself, lit a cigar, and wrote 
briskly for a long hour. 


CHAPTER LIII 


A PASSING STRANGER 

Captain Fernand was evidently not much impressed 
by his adventure with the would-be assassin of the blud- 
geon-and the cab. He made no mention of it to his host 
when the two met at the breakfast-table next morning, 
although he might easily have done so, for Moina was 
absent, not even appearing at luncheon. Even when M. 
Lugas appeared, the two having agreed to meet that 
morning, he was still silent upon the subject. M. Lugas 
had proposed to bring and read .to him sundry letters 
and reports from abroad. 

Captain Fernand was developing an interest in the 
general aspect of the question. They spent an hour in 
reading and discussing the cause and its probable and 
possible progress in France and Germany. When Lugas 
arose to take his leave, Captain Fernand arose too. “I 
will walk with you,” he said, "and perhaps as the day 
is so fine I can persuade you to lunch with me, some- 
where down town.” 

But M. Lugas said as to this: "We will walk together 
by all means,” he said, “but in an hour I must see a 
patient.” 

When they were a few paces from the house and 
sauntering along slowly, Makofski slipped his hand 
beneath the arm of M. Lugas. 

“I have a little thing to tell you,” he began, and then 
broke off suddenly to glance round at a small man of 
insignificant aspect and clad in rusty garments who had 

343 


344 


M01Ny4 


just brushed against him rather forcibly. “Well, my 
man,” he said brusquely, “what is it?” 

“Eh!” The man looked at him dazedly and came to 
a halt. 

“Do you wish to speak to me?” 

“I?” The man turned a look of blank inquiry from 
Makofski to Lugas and back to Makofski again. 

“You touched my sleeve,” said Makofski impatiently. 
“What do you want?” 

“I?” The man began a stream of voluble protestations. 
He had not meant to touch him. It was the big woman 
leading the child who had jostled him. He appealed 
from his accuser to Lugas, as if to judge, and continued 
to protest with his eyes upon his face. 

Suddenly Lugas turned away, pulling Makofski after 
him. “Come,” he said, “it^s nothing; the fellow has 
been drinking but he’s quite harmless, to judge from 
his looks. You’ll have a crowd about us. Come 
along.” 

Makofski consented to turn his back upon the small 
man who fell in the rear. 

“I am not so certain it was an accident,” said Captain 
Fernand, once more taking his companion’s arm. “And 
you might agree with me if you had heard what I was 
about to tell you.” 

“Eh! What is that?” asked Lugas eagerly; “what 
were you about to tell me?” 

“Simply this. Last night after we parted, you and I, 
I was attacked on the street, by a man — a small man who 
followed me in a cab, and took flight in it after he had 
failed to lay me out dying or dead on the pavement.” 

“You don’t think surely that the attack was meant for 
you? ” 

“Oh, there! that’s the question; I feel that I ought to 
report to the police.” 


A PASSING STRANGER 


345 


"The police! ’’ M. Lugas started. "Then you have not 
reported it to the police?" 

"You think I ought, I see, and perhaps you are right." 

"Wait! You are going too fast. There are many 
things to consider. To complain to the police might 
make you a little too prominent. You would be required 
to give your name, your residence, your occupation and 
antecedents. In short they must have your biography 
and it must be satisfactory." 

"I see," doubtfully. 

"But that is not all. What is known to the police 
here is known to the newspapers, and then you are at the 
mercy of the reporters. " 

"Heaven forbid !" piously ejaculated Captain Fernand. 
When they separated which was soon, they had mutually 
agreed that said attack had been meant for somebody 
else, and that it should not be laid before the police. 

As before, they parted at a corner, and as Makofski 
with a backward look and a wave of the hand turned to 
retrace his steps, some one brushed past him for a sec- 
ond time. It was a boy whose elbow grazed his in pass- 
ing — a boy wearing a soft hat instead of a rusty cap, and 
with such coat as he possessed rolled into a bundle and 
carried under his arm. 

He did not glance at Makofski, nor did that personage 
on this occasion seem at all disturbed by his manner. 
But as M. Lugas moved away. Captain Fernand might 
have seen if he had chanced to look after him , that the 
same gap in the crowd through which the affable phy- 
sician vanished also swallowed up the boy with his coat 
beneath his arm. 

Captain Fernand smiled behind his burly beard; 
walked back to the corner where he had parted from 
M. Lugas, and where a number of coupes were in wait- 
ing, entered one and was driven away. 


CHAPTER LIV 


AN amateur’s report 

Early in the afternoon of the same day, Roger Drexel 
was standing alone before the large window of his down- 
town place of rendezvous. He looked thoughtful and 
somewhat impatient, and he was twisting a letter be- 
tween his left thumb and fingers. The room bore traces 
of neglect. There was a coating of dust upon everything 
and the air smelled stale, as if it had been for days un- 
opened. 

"Odd,” he muttered half aloud. "Ken is unusually 
pfbmpt. "I hope this won’t last much longer." 

He seated himself after dusting off a chair with a 
month-old paper, and opened the letter which, since his 
entrance until then, he had held crumpled in his hand. 
It was signed with Kenneth Hosmer’s initials, and it 
ran thus: 

"Old head, what shall I do with J. P.? I fear he is 
getting beyond my control, is going to the deuce at a 
furious pace. He is, of course, out of work, and even 
you, I think would be satisfied with his present state of 
impecuniosity. They are literally penniless except for 
my help, and, of course, in my character of liberal fellow- 
worker, with but a few dollars laid by, I dare not do more 
than relieve actual need. Thus far I have obeyed in- 
structions to the letter, but this can’t go on much longer. 
I feel as if I were hounding a fellow-creature on to his own 
undoing. Parker grows sullen, morose, in fact unman- 

34 ^ 


AN AMATEUR'S REPORT 


347 


ageable. He is seeing some queer people, too. And 
there are some circumstances that should not be com- 
municated by letter. Can't you come out from your lair, 
your veil of invisibility and mystery, and give me one 
half-hour of communion in the flesh? Really old fellow 
I think it’s best so. 

“Answer at once — the old stand. 

“Yours in extremis^ 

“K. H.” 

Drexel smiled as he read the last words and folded 
up the letter. 

“That sounds like Ken. at his best,” he thought. 
“He has caught on to something and is not half so de- 
spairing of his own abilities as he would make it appear. 
This business, after all, may have been good for him.” 

But here his reverie was interrupted by Ken. himself. 

“Well, Roger, it's awfully hard on a fellow, but he’s 
going to take you at your word. I will only ask one 
question : Does your work prosper? ” 

“It’s more than good of you to take so much on trust 
Ken., but before I answer, I must ask — ” 

“Well?” 

“Do you still think as we did the last time when we 
talked together?” 

“Do I still think you were right and I was wrong? 
Yes, I think it — and with confirmation strong, and 
growing daily stronger. Drexel, you saved me from worse 
than folly, when you laid your commands upon me, and 
sent me out to see the monster face to face.” 

“I have sent you into the enemy’s country, and it was 
right that I show you how dangerous he is. The thing 
I am fighting now — and the thing I ask you to fight 
with me is organized assassination.” 

“What!” 


348 


MOIN/I 


“A band of murderers, red-handed. They are many, 
and I am almost alone. I cannot tell you everything 
Ken., for the secrets of others are in my keeping. But 
I will tell you what I may. I will tell you this: the 
men who are gaining control of the revolutionary move- 
ment here and elsewhere, are plotting crimes that, if 
allowed to mature, will fill a nation with horror and 
cause innocent blood to flow.” 

For a long hour the two sat there, the one speaking in 
low, guarded whispers, the other exclaiming, question- 
ing, wondering, scarcely able to contain his surprise, 
and growing, as the story reached its end, fairly aglow 
with excitement and enthusiasm and nervous energy. 
When the story was told and he stood confessed, plain 
Roger Drexel no longer, but Hurst the detective — that 
foreigner, whose praise had so often of old been upon the 
lips of his unsuspecting friend, the narrator leaned 
back in his chair and said: 

"Now, four men at the least, a round dozen at the 
most, must be rendered harmless, in some way, before 
another month has rolled over our heads.” 

"Rendered harmless! but how?” 

"Don’t ask me! Somehow — anyhow. Four of these 
men — the four I undertake. It will be a struggle be- 
tween us, but I do not despair of success. The others, if 
others there be, I shall leave to the police.” 

Suddenly he threw out his hand as if casting the 
whole subject aside. 

"Let us say no more about this. Perhaps you can 
guess, now, what my interest in this Joseph Parker 
means. You wrote me a strange letter. Why?” 

"Parker has been going from bad to worse,” he began. 
"And of late I have kept very close at his heels. He 
has no longer the least doubt where I am concerned. I 
have more of his confidence than any one — much more 


AMATEUR'S REPORT 


349 


than even his wife, poor soul. But he still clings to his 
great secret. The secret that in some way concerns, 
I am confident, the brotherhood with which he was 
identified. Something lies heavy on his conscience; he 
lives in fear and dread of something, and it has driven 
him to drink. ” 

"You think so?” 

"Beyond a doubt. Now this is what I wanted to tell 
you. He has met someone lately whom he knew in one 
of his lodges and Pve barely saved him from commit- 
ting a piece of high-handed outlawry.” 

"So bad as that?” 

"You shall judge. Of course, I did not come by this 
knowledge ail at once. I had to manage him very care- 
fully and profess to any amount of lawlessness on my own 
part. He had to get very desperate and very drunk in 
my society of course, before it came out. His pockets 
were empty and the rent was over due, and I thought it 
best, for once, to have no money. Then it came out. 
Somebody had asked him to waylay a man and assault 
him.” 

"Ah! The details?” 

"Are there, briefly. There is ,to be a man, I don’t 
know who, to be ‘intimidated.’ The plan was all arranged 
for us. We — Parker and I — were to post ourselves at a 
certain shadowy street-corner, and there await the coming 
of two men. One of these was to wear an unmistakable 
hat and a certain foreign-looking cloak — a sort of mili- 
tary cloak." 

"Eh!” Drexel started suddenly and then said as the 
other paused, "Go on. It grows interesting.” 

"This hat and cloak were to be shown to Parker, so 
that he might be able to identify the parties. I was not 
to be let into that part of it.” 

"I see; go on,” impatiently. 


350 


MOINy4 


“The encounter might occur on any one of three 
nights, it was thought. Our instructions were simply to 
wait at this corner until our man appeared. In the mean- 
time a cab was to be stationed close at hand, the driver 
to be a safe ma7i. 

“Yes, yes! ” Drexel’s hands were working nervously. 

“According to our program our two men were to 
separate at this corner. He of the cloak and hat would 
go unmolested on his way, the other we were to follow 
and assault with bludgeons in a shady and quiet spot, 
of course, while the cab crept along at our heels ready 
to carry us safely away when the work was done. 

“Well, go on man! Was this fine program carried 
out?" 

“Not by us. I pretended to agree with everything, and 
when the time came we were on the spot, or near it. I 
had plied Joseph and mixed his drink in such a way as 
to make him a good deal more than half-sick. Then 
1 volunteered to reconnoiter, leaving Parker in a con- 
venient stairway. I came back to him with a fine story 
of policemen on the watch, reported an imaginary con- 
versation, told him that our plan must have been in 
someway discovered, and got him off the scene of 
action before the man of the hat and cloak made his 
appearance. ” 

“Ken,” cried Drexel starting up, “when did this hap- 
pen? " 

“Night before last.” 

“And was that the first night of your watch?” 

“Yes." 

“And last night were you on watch again?" 

“No. Parker had weakened, and did not show himself 
at the place of rendezvous. And this brings me to the 
business of my note. Knowing that the hour for the 
rendezvous was past, I left Parker for the night. When 


Ah! AMATEUR'S REPORT 


351 


I saw him again the tempter had done his work. The 
case must have grown urgent for the man came openly 
to his door, got him out of bed and into the street — ” 

"Stop — at what hour was this?" 

"Between two and three o^ clock this morning. As 
nearly as I could gather from Parker’s talk, the man 
began by berating him for not being on hand the previ- 
ous night, told him that our watch and alarm of the 
first night was quite needless and finished by making 
a new plan." 

"A new plan?” eagerly. 

"Yes. It is to be tried again in a different way. 
This time the victim is to be decoyed somewhere and 
attacked when quite at our mercy. It is a diabolical 
plot! What am I to do? Some man’s life is in danger. 
How can he be saved — be warned?’ 

"Is the thing decided?" 

"Quite." 

"Kenneth,” said Drexel, after a moment of silence, 
"ypu must carry this thing through." 

"What?” 

"If you mean to stand by me, now is your time. I am 
playing a desperate game and I may fail. But my plans 
are well laid. What I have learned through you and 
others, leads me to believe that this man Parker may 
prove valuable to me. Do not let him out of your 
sight. Don’t interfere with him. Let him mature his 
plans, and agree to anything he proposes— only be sure 
and keep me fully informed." 

"Old man,” said Hosmer, putting his hand upon his 
friend’s shoulder, "I see more clearly, mojiient by 
moment, that you are running into danger — taking a 
fearful risk, and taking it almost alone. Why not turn 
these men, these villainous ring leaders over to the 


352 


M0INy4 


police and the public. Let f/iem dea.! out justice. Can^t 
it be done?” 

“No. And if it could be, don*t you see the sure result? 
Say we arrest these men, there is a great trial, a mon- 
strous exposure, all the country is aflame and curious. 
Accused and accusers each have their following; suppose 
even that we succeed, that the men are condemiied and 
punished, what do they then become in the eyes and 
memories of their diciples? Heroes! Martyrs whose 
work indeed may have fallen from their hands, but 
whose baleful influence goes on and grows and increases. 
No. That must not be! These men must be crushed^ 
driven out ignominiously, made to drop their weapons 
and vanish into obscurity.” 

"Oh, you are right enough, "sighed Homer. “And so 
I must go on with the game; turn garroter. And how 
far must the game be played this time?" 

“Until the end, or until the game is taken out of your 
hands. Lure your victim to the rendezvous and leave 
the rest to me.” 

“And you will be there, yourself?'" • 

“Never doubt it. Never fear for that. Assuredly as 
your victim is there, I will be there too." 

“Remember this, Roger. Parker is a giant in strength. 
Do not underate the power of this man. In the mean- 
time — ” 

“In the meantime, Ken. Try to see the man who is 
urging him on to this. See him or learn his name. 
Double your vigilance. It is most important f 


CHAPTER LV 


WHAT LITTLE HANS REMEMBERED 

“Well, my boy, here I am at last. Have I kept you 
waiting?” 

“It don't count Capt'n. I’ve done longer waits than 
this. I was here on time though. 

It was early dark and the man and boy met and halted 
close beside the dark stone wall upon the shadowy cor- 
ner of a quiet street. Not far from the hospital where 
little Frank Price was slowly drifting out from the land 
of the known. 

The man was Roger Drexel and the boy was Johnny 
Deegan, the one-time boot black of Court and Laflin 
Corners. 

“Now what have you to tell me?” 

"Lots!" Johnny whispered shrilly in answer to DrexePs 
query. Dead loads, you just bet. We’ll have to go 
som’ers. ” 

“Come then. " Drexel turned promptly and led the way 
down the street and into a little restaurant where hot 
sausage was supplied at all hours. 

“We can talk comfortably here,” Drexel said, con- 
ducting the boy to a secluded corner and calling for a: 
heaping plate of the hot and odorous edibles. “Now 
then, Johnny. Talk first, eat later.” 

“All right boss, Pve got it out of Hans.” 

“Good!” 

“Yes, sir! He's told the whole business. It’s that 
last fake of mine did it.” 

Moina — 2.? 


353 


354 


MOIhlA 


“What was your last fake?” 

“Oh, a rackit I give him about an old codger as was 
arrested and locked up in a jug fer cracking a little chap’s 
crown. I made him look as near’s I could, like the old 
chap I seen on the corner, ye know, and Hans jest bit 
on it. Ye see he felt so good to think the feller was in 
hock, fer he was dead sure it must be him, that he finally 
braced up and told me the hull story. After that, 
Capt’n, it didn’t take me so very long to persuade him 
that if he’d tell it to you, you’d see him safe out of it.” 

“Oh, so you want me to see him?” 

“Well,” helping himself to a smoking sausage, “that’s 
fer you ter say.” 

“Tell me the story, Johnny. We can go to Hans’ 
afterward, if it seems best.” 

Johnny’s version of little Hans’ story was unique, told 
as it was between bits of sausage and rye bread, and 
Drexel listened attentively and with few interruptions. 
When all was told, the two went together to the Bates 
College where little Hans was domiciled, and Drexel held 
his first interview with him, and gradually won him to 
talk freely, and to answer readily. 

The boy was a singular mixture of shrewdness and in- 
nocence, and his story, the pathetic tale of a young 
child-life cut off from all childish pastimes and pleasures. 

“All that is over, my boy,” said Roger Drexel. And 
then seeing the boy’s growing confidence in himself he 
approached the subject of his keenest interest. “I want 
you to tell me more about the things you did for the 
old man, Hans. What did you call him?” 

“Tausig. But sometimes Gran, and some of the 
others, called him the ‘Spider.’” 

“Well, Hans, tell me all about Frank Price, the flower- 
boy. ” 

Hans’ face blanched. 



HANS’ FACE BLANCHBD.-Moina, p. 364. 



350 


MOINA 


"Oh, sir, if you please — *' 

"Tut tut, nobody is going to blame you for Frank 
Pricers hurt. You see I know all about it. How did you 
happen to be at hand that day you met him carrying the 
flowers?" 

"Why, that just happened, truly, sir. I was bangin' 
about an' bein' so uset ter watchin' things, I s' pose 
that's how I happened to see the name on the basket." 

"Yes. But how came you to be watching? You had 
the little bow with you, the one you left on the table 
with the flowers. Did they tell you to leave it there 
that day?" 

"Why, sir— you see I had been tryin' to get it into the 
house for two or three days, and they was pretty mad 
'cause I didn't git no good chance. And then that 
mornin' he said, the Spider did, that I got to do it that 
day, 'cause there was a party, and I could slip in behind 
somebody, and say it was somethin' dropped, if I was 
noticed. " 

"You are not to blame, Hans. Were you ever there 
before?" 

"Once, one night, a good while ago, we went there — the 
Spider and Big Joe and me." 

Drexel started and seemed about to ask another ques- 
tion then, "Go on," he said shortly. 

"We went late; it was a dark night. The Spider had 
some tools an’ keys an' things. We went round to the 
back door and the Spider got the door open somehow. 
There was a little door, ye know, like they have some- 
times so’s ennybody can't come right in." 

Drexel nodded. 

"Well, it was like that, an' the Spider got it open, 
and he made me git through and find the bolts and pour 
some oil on them, and then slide 'em back, so that Big 
Joe could come in." 


IVH^T LITTLE HANS REMEMBERED 


357 


“Didn’t the Spider go in, too?” 

“No, only as far as the door. Big Joe had a peek-a- 
boo.” 

“What?” 

“A dark-lantern, ye know. He went inter the house 
and we waited outside until he come back again.” 

“How long did you wait?” 

“Oh, it seemed a good while. The Spider got pretty 
fidgety. ” 

‘“Now, Hans, I want you to think. What did they 
sa}^ — the Spider and Big Joe — before Big Joe went into 
the house?” 

“Why, not very much. The Spider told him to go 
ahead. He told him about the stairs; and jest how to 
get to a room upstairs; and he says, ‘everybody’s away 
but him. You’ll find it baby’s job.’ And I remember 
Big Joe swore and said, ‘anyhow, it’s the last job 
they’ll get out of me.’” 

“And afterward when Joe came back?” 

“Then the Spider says, Ts it done?’ and Big Joe swore 
and says, ‘Yes, le’s get out of here quick.’” 

For a moment Drexel sat silent and thoughtful, then: 

“Tell me about this Big joe, my boy,” he said; “how 
did he look?” 

“Oh, he w'as tall and strong, sir. As big as you or 
bigger; and he had good looking eyes, and lots of hair 
on his face.” 

“Did he have any kind of mark or scar? — think now — 
on hands or face?” 

Hans pondered. 

“Why yes, now I remember,” he said. “There was a 
wart —or no, a mole. Gran said it was a mole; a big one.” 

“Where?” 

“Right here.” The boy rested one thin finger upon 
his temple just above the cheek-bone. 


358 


MOINA 


“Are you sure?" cried Drexel. “Was it on that 

cheek? ’’ 

“Yes. Jest there." 

Drexel got up and walked to the window. There was 
a gleam, of excitement in his eyes, hidden behind the 
benevolent glasses which he wore always in meetings 
with Johnny Deegan. 

“Ah!” he was saying to himself, “this is more than 
I expected. More and better. Can it be that this little 
Hans is to show me the way to the end of this miserable 
coil?" He turned suddenly and addressed himself 
again to the boy. 

“Hans, your memory seems good. Try to think; when 
did this happen — this visit, this first visit of yours with 
the Spider and Big Joe, to that house on the avenue? In 
what month?" And then, as the boy hesitated, “Was 
it warm, or cold? Winter or spring?" 

Hans brightened. 

“I know, now," he said. “It was winter, the end of 
winter, ^ cause there was a little snow that night, an’ I 
caught cold, an’ the next day it snowed again. And 
then it never snowed any more. It got warm and sunny 
right off.” 

“Ah! " said Drexel, half to himself. “I remember. 
That was in February." 

Again he turned to the window and stood there for 
some moments, consulting a little book of memoranda 
which he drew from his pocket. Finally he came back 
to the boy, Johnny Deegan. 

“Johnny, my man,” he said, as if addressing a familiar 
spirit. “Won’t you just run down into the back-yard 
there and see if by chance any one is hanging about the 
alley who ought not to be?" 

Johnny was off at once, swelling with importance. He 
had not found the dialogue very interesting. Drexel 


IVHAT LITTLE HANS REMEMBERED 


359 


himself closed the door behind him, and then came 
close to Hans. 

' “Now, Hans, be quick. Let’s get it over before 
Johnny comes back. Tell me about the next time you 
went to that house, after you left the flowers.” 

“Eh! ” the boy started. 

“There was a new door, you remember, and you had 
to be put through the transom. Who was with you that 
night?” 

But now the boy sprang up, white to the lips. 

“Oh!" he cried, “how did you know about that?” 


CHAPTER LVl 


CRASHAW^S LAST HAND 

"And that is your last word, La Croix." 

"It is, on that subject." 

They were face to fac^ in the old man’s studio. La 
Croix erect in his long artist’s gown, and Crashaw oc- 
cupying a low chair and crushing his soft hat between 
his strong, ungraceful hands. 

"I promised to speak with the girl, and I have done 
so;" La Croix went on. "She refuses utterly. She 
will not hear of it." 

"She might," said Crashaw bitterly, if she knew it 
was your wish.” 

"Crashaw — " the old man flung down his brush with 
an impatient gesture — "have done with this! I told you 
I believed my girl had already chosen, but I was willing 
to present your suit, even to urge it. This I did. I 
might repeat her words; they were not pleasant; she 
defied me openly. For the first time in her life, my 
daughter defied me. Do you wish to see her? To hear 
from her own lips — " 

"Yes,” interrupted Crashaw at last. "I wish it if I 
may see her alone." 

Crashaw was still standing when Moina entered the 
room a minute later and he faced her with something of 
surprise upon his countenance — something of satisfac- 
tion too. 

"You wished to speak with me?" she said icily. 

360 


CR^SHAIV'S LAST HAND 


361 


"Yes,” he said slowly. "I wished to see you, to ask 
you why you will not even listen to me?” 

"Since you insist upon having it — because your com- 
pany, your conversation, was not agreeable to me.” 

"Your father has been good enough to hint to me, that 
Rene Savareis was, in your eyes, a better man than I." 

A swift change came over her face. The waves of 
scarlet, the blaze of anger, receded. She became sud- 
denly calm and a smile relaxed the corners of her mouth. 

He noted the change and stopped abruptly. 

"Well," he said finally, "have you nothing to say?” 

"Nothing,” she replied composedly. 

"You confess then, that you prefer Savareis — that he 
stands beween us.” 

"The whole world, and all in it, stands between us, 
Rufus Crashaw. As to Rene Savareis, yes, I do prefer 
him to you infinitely.” 

"And you believe in him of course?” he sneered. "I 
think you may have heard of Madam Orloff. ” 

"Madam La Princess Orloff? I have seen her, and 
am not jealous of her.” 

"If your answer to night had been different, I need not 
have pained and troubled you as I now must.” He 
paused and looked at her fixedly, and then said abruptly: 
"You are impatient. I will come to the point. Your 
father. Miss La Croix, is in great danger.” 

"Of what?” 

"As a murderer.” 

He has roused her at last. She turned upon him with 
blanched face. "Man, you are vile if you are saying this 
to, terrify me! ” 

He forces back a triumphant smile ; at last his moment 
has come. She will listen to him now. 

"I wished to spare you,” he said smoothly. "But no 
more of that. Do you remember a night, weeks ago. 


362 


MOIhlA 


when your father went out, alone and late, for the first 
time after his illness?” 

She caught her breath quickly, and suppressed the 
, cry that arose to her lips. 

“I see; you do remember it,” he said. 

"Go on,” she whispered. "What is it? — the worst.” 

"You were hardly yourself for some days after, ” he went 
on relentlessly. "That night, the night of your father’s 
mysterious absence, there was a murder, so called, in a 
house on Fifth Avenue.” 

She uttered a shrill cry and sprang to her feet, but he 
put out his hand and something in his look and gesture 
checked the mad words that arose to her lips. 

"Wait,” he said, "hear me out. You know of that 
midnight excursion. You know of the catastrophe of 
that night. And you in some manner connected the two. 
How you came by that connecting link, I confess I do 
not quite understand. I must ask you to tell me all you 
know of that business. It is best that we understand 
each other.” 

But Moina had recovered herself. She was on her 
guard once more. 

"When I have heard what you know of that night, 
perhaps,” she said quite firmly. "Certainly not before.” 

"As you please. Your father was seen to go to that house 
on Fifth A.venue. The murder occurred, so the coroner’ s 
experts decided, at or near twelve o’clock. It was just 
a few minutes later that he was seen to leave that place.” 

"Who saw him?” gasped Moina. "Was he followed? 
Was he spied upon?” 

"He was seen; that is sufficient. And now for your 
statement. ” 

‘T will make it as you made yours. I have acted as 
my father’s secretary. I knew that the name of this man, 
whose house you say he visited, was on the list of the 


CRASHAIV'S LAST HAND 


303 


enemies of the ‘circle/ I drew my inferences. What 
does all this lead to?’’ she asked wearily. 

“I want to throw these spies off the track and insure his 
safety, that is all. And this cannot be done without your 
help. He does not know that he is being watched. We 
thought it best for many reasons that he should not. 
Do you not agree with me?” 

“He must not know,” she answered quickly. 

"Then he should be got away from this house as soon 
as possible.” 

“But if we are watchful — ” 

“We must use strategy. Another house must betaken, 
and this time, a detached house in an exclusive quarter 
of the city, or else a very humble tenement in a crowded 
section will be best for our purpose. You understand 
me — your household must either be more aristocratic 
than at present, or much humbler, and it must number 
more people or less.” 

“I see.” 

“When the place is chosen all must be done quietly. 
“This place, I believe, was taken — furnished?” 

“Yes, or nearly so.” 

“Well your belongings must be left behind. And this 
house must be retained — for awhile. Last, you must go 
away from here one at a time, and as if you were soon 
coming back. Your father, of course, must be the first 
to go. You would do well to remain here, at least to be 
seen here for two or three days after. And your serv- 
ants — they had better be dismissed and others taken.” 

She was silent a moment, then, “Has this matter been 
discussed with the others? 

“With Passauf, Lugas and Savareis, yes.” 

“Have you spoken to my father?” 

“I have already told you — no. I wished to consult 
you first.” He arose and took up his hat. 


364 


MOINA 


"I will not trouble you longer," he said; "remember 
this change cannot be made too soon. " He moved toward 
the door. "Can I serve you in any way?" 

"No." This quickly, as an odd look crossed her face. 
"Yes, if you will please send M. Savareis to me. Tell 
him I wish to see him to-night, if possible." 

He frowned in spite of himself, but answered promptly: 

"I will see him at once. But I must warn you. M. 
Savareis does not know why we are seeking to remove 
your father from this house." 

"Not know? I thought — " 

"He thinks our meeting here has been reported to the 
police. The truth is known only to you, myself and two 
others. " 

"And they? who are they?" 

"I am not at liberty to inform you," he said and bowed 
himself out. 


/ 


CHAPTER LVn 


MOINA ASSERTS HERSELF 

Rufus Crashaw was as good as his word, and Rene 
Savareis appeared in Moina’s drawing-room at an early 
hour. 

They talked over the projected change, and she found 
it as Crashaw had said. He was quite ignorant of the 
real reason rendering it necessary. They talked of her 
father too. And Moina spoke of him to Rene freely as 
she did to none other. 

“Oh, I believe you have guessed it — have seen it your- 
self! Rene — do you think, can it be, that my father is 
gradually becoming — insane?” 

Rene shook his head. 

“I wish I were qualified to answer that,” he said. 

“But you have thought of it. Rene, if that should 
happen, oh, I could not bear it! And you don^t know, 
even you do not know, how much I have borne and am 
bearing!" And then she broke down utterly. 

“Promise me this, Rene,” she said, when she had 
grown calmer —“promise that you will be more than 
ever my friend, Rene — that you will stand between me 
and that man, Crashaw. He thinks — ” She stopped, 
blushing hotly. 

Rene smiled reassuringly. 

“He thinks we are lovers,” he said lightly, “and let 
him think so. It may make it easier for you. I suppose 
you know the plans for your removal?” he asked. 

“In part. All has been decided for us, I dare say.” 

3^5 


366 


MOINA 


“Subject, I suppose, to your approval and that of your 
father. I think they are very good — the plans. You are 
to keep this house and leave your old servants in it, 
employing new ones for the new quarters. The house is 
to appear as much as is possible as if you were all here 
as usual. ” 

Moina started. “But Margot,” she said — “I will not 
leave Margot.” 

“She can come to you after a little,” he said sooth- 
ingly; “and she will have the others with her." 

“No, she will not. We keep but two servants here, 
and the cook goes home at night.” 

“Then you must get a new woman at once. One who 
will stay here with Margot. ” 

“Ah,” sighed Moina; “if Margot were not so much of 
a foreigner. If I only had some one — even a servant who 
was not as much their servant as mine." 

“Stay,” said Rene, his face lighting up, “I have an 
idea. You shall have just such a servant easily, through 
the princess, or if you prefer it, through Miss Payne. I 
can see one or the other. What do you say?” 

Moina was thoughtful for a long moment. Then she 
lifted her head, a new light of determination shining 
in her eyes. 

“I am going to fight hard for my emancipation,” she 
said resolutely. “Luckily they have not begun to choose 
my servants. I want an honest woman who will obey 
me and none other — one who is used to hardship and is 
not nervous or timid. I will write a letter and you may 
take it to Miss Payne. Ah!” her face suddenly clouding, 
“I wish I could be sure I was not plotting against my 
father. But if he is planning to deliver me over to 
Rufus Crashaw, I can never forgive him.” 

“For heaven^ s sake, Moina, “for your own sake,” said 
Rene earnestly, “don’t lose faith in your father! As 


MOIh!^ ASSERTS HERSELF. 


367 


God hears me, I believe him to be as much a victim in 
the hands of the Philistines as yourself.’’. 

But when Moina, startled and surprised, attempted to 
question him, he would say no more. 

Early the next day, Rene was in consultation with the 
princess; and before his outgoing feet had crossed the 
threshold of the Occidental, she, in her turn, was closeted 
with Madeline Payne. 

The result of these two interviews is embodied in the 
following note written and promptly dispatched to Roger 
Drexel or to his address. 

“Mr. Hurst, Dear Sir : — I have just sent my maid, 
Minna, to Miss La Croix, who has appealed to me in a 
somewhat roundabout way, for a servant. The request 
came by M. Rene Savareis, to madam la princess, and 
from her to me. 

“I have explained to madam that I intended to take 
back my old French maid, and that this opportunity 
for disposing of Minna is"* quite welcome to me. Minna 
will be with me at eleven o’clock to-morrow, and will 
receive instructions, if you have any to give. She is to 
be trusted. M. P. ’’ 


CHAPTER LVIII 


SECTION NUMBER FIVE 

It was not hard to persuade Miles La Croix to consent 
to a change of residence. Especially as he found Moina 
and Savareis in favor of the change. 

But Crashaw’s plans were not the only ones that worked 
with wondrous smoothness. Rene Savareis “brought 
Minna boldly into the house and she was at once accepted 
by Moina. 

And now all was ready for the flitting of the household. 
At early dark Moina and Minna go forth on foot and 
with nothing about them to indicate a permanent depart- 
ure. They are not to go to the new house that night 
— Moina’ s rooms are not ready to receive her — but they 
are to occupy, for the night only, snug rooms at a little 
hotel not far from the new abode; when they are a few 
blocks from the door, Rene Savareis joins them, puts 
them into a cab, and escorts them thither. 

“You are sure papa will go to-night?” Moina asked 
anxiously, when Savareis is about to take leave of them. 

“Oh, no doubt of it. You see it is all arranged like 
this. Soon, say in half an hour from this, your father 
will drive away in a cab, in company with Crashaw. 
In an hour or two he will return — that is the same cab 
will return, and two men will get out but this time it 
will be — whom do you think?” 

“Oh, I can’t think! ” 

“Makofski! He is nearer your father’s height than 
any of the others and he will wear your father’s cap and 

363 


SECTION NUMBER FIVE 


3G9 


cloak. The two will enter. Meantime Margot will have 
lighted the house as if for company, and, to make the 
assumption of thehost^s presence more complete, Lugas 
and one or two others will arrive shortly — and remain, 
probably, until quite a late hour.” 

Moina had become suddenly pale. Under her long 
cloak she is pressing a clinched hand hard against her 
side. 

"And you, Rene — are you — to go back?” 

"Not I,” Rene laughs lightly. ' "I am quite at your 
disposal, if you will have me — ” 

"Oh, no, no! Go back, Renei We shall be quite 
safe and comfortable. Besides — ” 

"Oh, I shall not go back. I do not want to; and I am 
not wanted. If you dismiss me I shall hover about not 
far away, and be at hand to assist you to your new abode 
in the morning. Those are my instructions.” 

Still the hand at her side is clutching at her side; 
but she steadies her voice and manages to dismiss him 
with the assurance that she needs nothing, and means to 
retire early. But when she is shut up with Minna in 
the two little rooms they are to occupy for the night, 
she will not remove her cloak and goes hastening up and 
down with nervous, unsteady steps and face studiously 
turned away from the discreet Minna. 

"Minna, do you know the city well?” 

"Somewhat, gracious fraulein!” 

"Do you know where we are now?” 

"Truly, no. I did not notice — much after we entered 
the cab — but — I can find out very easily. It is only 
to ask at the office. That would be quite proper — 
for me. ” 

"Minna,” the girl turns and extends an eager hand 
toward her new maid. "You may find out, very dis- 
creetly, our location; how far we 'are from B— street — 

Moina — 24 


370 


MOIN/i 


and how long it would take to drive there in — in' the 
morning. ” 

The program, as outlined by Rene Savareis, is not car- 
ried into execution with exactness. Miles La Croix goes 
with Crashaw but he does not come back with him, or 
his counterfeit presentment does not. Instead Crashaw 
returns alone and soon, and is promptly admitted by 
Margot. 

"Margot, my good girl," he begins affably, "your mas- 
ter has thought better of leaving you alone in this big 
house to-night. He wishes you to take this card and go 
to the place at once. You will find a room already en- 
gaged for you, and you can pass the night there very 
comfortably. In the morning you will return here and 
attend to your duties as you have been directed." 

Margot looks at the card and her face brightens. She 
knows the place indicated on that bit of pasteboard; a 
trim little cafe only a little way down a side street and 
kept by a cheery widow. She thinks M. Crashaw with 
many smiles and mentally blesses her master for his 
thoughtfulness, and goes at once. 

Left alone, Crashaw looks around and finds something 
amiss. 

"Confound it," he growls, "I forgot to tell her to light 
the drawing-rooms." He consults his watch, then adds, 
after a moment’s reflection, "It can’t be helped now. 
Perhaps it is better so. At any rate the way is clear 
and I must let them know it." 

His cab is in waiting, he enters it and drives away. 

Nearly an hour passes by and then another carriage 
comes swiftly to the door. From it one man alights, 
crosses the pavement and opens the door with a latch 
key and enters the vestibule. All is still within and the 
dim light reveals thaCit is Crashaw once more. Leaving 


SECTION NUMBER FIVE 


371 


the outer door wide open he crosses the pavement and 
says just a word with his face at the carriage window, 
then he goes back and three others emerge from the 
vehicle and disappear within the vestibule. 

“Come in,” says Crashaw from the inner hall. “The 
drawing-room has been locked by that confounded woman 
that I sent away; but we can light up the studio. It 
will do for us until the others come.” 

Another half hour passes and the carriage which carried 
away Miles La Croix and his companion draws up to the 
door. 

At the sound of the wheels some one steps out. 

“Is that you. La Croix?” calls Crashaw from the top- 
most step. “Glad you're back.” 

The two last arrivals go into the house quickly. It is 
Crashaw who closes and locks the outer door. 

Then the three confront each other in the hall. 

Captain Fernand throws off Miles La Croix's hat and 
cloak and tosses them down. 

“There, gentlemen,” he said carelessly, “that little 
masquerade has passed unchallenged, let us hope that 
any spy, who may have been on the lookout, rests in the 
faith that he has seen our friend La Croix safely under 
his own roof; and now — ” glancing from Crashaw to 
Lugas, “what is the nature of this conference of yours, 
and where is it to be held?” He moves toward the 
drawing-room but Crashaw puts out his hand. 

“It's locked,” he says, “and the studio is a poor place 
for such a talk as ours. Is there not an upper room, 
captain? Any place will do, so that its windows are not 
open to observers. ” 

Captain Fernand turned the handle of the drawing- 
room-door, in spite of Crashaw' s words. 

“It's odd that the drawing-room should be locked,” he 
says. And then the smooth voice of Lugas interposes. 


372 


SECTION NUMBER FIl^E 


"There^s the study — ” 

"No,” says Captain Fernand, with sudden decision, 
"we will go up to my own chamber. The study, no 
doubt, is locked also,” as indeed it is, and the key thereto 
safely reposing in the captain’s pocket, a trust from 
Miles La Croix. "I will light the way for you, ” he adds. 

And while Crashaw and Lugas at the foot of the stairs 
exchanged significant glances, he goes up, and they hear 
in a moment the snap of a parlor match and see a light 
flash up in the hall above them. 

"It’s the very place ! " whispers Crashaw; "in the mid- 
dle of the house and — ” 

"Hush,” murmurs Lugas. 

The captain is speaking from the floor above. "You 
can come up at once, gentlernen. ” 

Then they hear a-key turned, a door opened, and again, 
faintly, the sound of another match. 

With a bound like a cat, Crashaw is at the outer door 
which he opens quickly. 

"Go up," he whispers, "and say that Passauf has just 
joined us." 

Then as Lugas ascends the stairs he closes the door 
with a bang and darts at once into the studio. "You 
have just arrived, remember,” he says to the three men 
seated within. "Follow me, all is well." 

The chamber is lighted when Lugas enters, and the 
captain is busy closing the blinds and drawing together 
the long soft curtains. There are two windows opposite 
the door of entrance, and at the one side is a second 
door, before which hangs a heavy drapery. 

"Ah," says Lugas, looking about him. "You have 
room enough here." Then he crosses to the window 
where the captain still stands, draws back the curtain 
and looks out. "Why how do you face?” he asks as if 
in surprise. 


SECTION NUMBER FiyE 


373 


“South, and a dead wall,’’ is the captain’s careless 
answer. 

“Better and better,’’ says Lugas to himself, and then 
he comes away from the window. “Wasn’t that the 
street door?’’ he asks. 

"Probably,” answers the captain. 

And then through his own open doorway comes first 
Rufus Crashaw, next Jules Passauf, and last two burly 
strangers, who enter somewhat awkwardly and halt at 
the door, while Lugas comes quickly and greets them 
by names that are strange to Captain Fernand, and ex- 
presses his delight, “That at the eleventh hour they have 
decided to come.” And then Captain Fernand is made 
aware that the presence of these two new-comers has 
been solicited, despaired of, and is at last most welcome, 
after which they are duly presented. If Captain Fer- 
nand is in any way disturbed, surprised, annoyed, there is 
nothing to indicate it. He receives the new-comers 
with ihe utmost coolness and then draws the table forth 
from the wall and brings forward other chairs. 

The two strangers, stalwart, dark-browed men, are not 
quite at ease sitting at the captain’s table. They have 
little to say at first, and their eyes are often and stealth- 
ily fixed upon the face of Captain Fernand. 

If they are ill at ease, he is not, and if he is aware of 
their covert scrutiny he makes no sign. 

And now they are all seated at the little table; Lugas 
with Crashaw and Passauf on either side, sitting oppo- 
site the captain, who, singularly finds himself seated be- 
tween the two bushy strangers. There is a momentary 
silence as all settle themselves in their places. Then 
Captain Fernand says: 

“Gentlemen, I have placed my quarters at your dis- 
posal ; pray consider me as host no longer, simply at your 
service. 


374 


MOIN/i 


Dr. Lugas bows gravely and glancing about him, Cap- 
tain Fernand sees a look of gloom settle suddenly upon 
the faces of his five guests. 

“Captain Makofski,” begins Lugas, “in coming here 
to-night, and in what we are about to do, we are acting, 
not as we would, perhaps, but as we must. We are here 
in obedience to our oath as embodied in section number 
five. 

A change comes over Captain Fernand’s countenance. 
He moves suddenly and then, as the men on either 
side of him turn toward him, he drops back into his 
former position and bows to the men opposite him, meet- 
ing their gaze squarely the while. 

“Ah!" the icy, upward inflection says more than many 
syllables. 

Dr. Lugas takes from his pocket a slender folded doc- 
ument and lays it upon the table before Jules Passauf. 

“The secretary of our committee will read the charge,” 
he says. Passauf takes the document, spreads it out 
before him, and reads it with mechanical correctness. 

It is an exceedingly funereal document, and the words 
“whereas" and “insomuch" and the phrases, “the council 
decrees" and “by order of the council," are frequent 
upon the page. It ends as follows: ♦ 

“And it is the judgment of the council, that, be- 
cause of circumstances and conditions, known and un- 
derstood by all the members of the Inner Circle and the 
Supreme Council, this investigation be carried out pri- 
vately by the committee chosen, which committee will 
consist of five or seven members of the Inner Circle who 
shall also belong to the Supreme Council. And the 
result of this same shall be reported at a private and 
special session of the council aforesaid. 

'All of which reduced to plainest language means that 
Captain Fernand Makofski has been denounced by some 


SECTION NUMBER FIVE 


375 


party or parties unknown, as a traitor to the cause he 
has so recently espoused, and that he is now to be ‘tried, ^ 
by the five men who have taken him by strategy a pris- 
oner, as he well understands, in his own quarters.” 

“Captain Makofski,” says Lugas, breaking the silence 
that has followed the reading, “have you anything to 
say?” 

“At this stage, nothing; except that your method, as 
well as the time and place is, to say the least, peculiar. 
I may have more to say when I have heard your charges.” 

His voice is highly scornful. He leans back in his 
chair and lets his eyes rest lightly first on one and then 
another of the group. “Probably,” he adds, as no one 
is in haste to speak, “you have at least gone through 
the form of drawing up specific charges." 

It is Lugas that answers. Evidently it is with Lugas 
with whom he has to deal. The eyes of the two men 
meet and neither falter. Those of Lugas are steely, 
.cold, as his voice is unmoved and matter-of-fact. 

“The charges are certainly specific," he says, 'and 
they can be presented verbally. If you are able to clear 
yourself, so much the better, we shall all have cause to 
congratulate ourselves." 

Makofski merely nods his head. 

“Why don’t you put your question?” growls Rufus 
Crashaw without looking up from the table where his 
eyes for the most part have rested. 

“I was about to do so. Captain Makofski and gentle- 
men of the committee attend, please. Captain Makofski 
you are accused of thwarting the plans of the ‘council.’ 
Of giving information to the enemy, of coming among 
us for that purpose.” 

All eyes are turned toward him now. But his answer 
seems slightly disappointing, to judge from the lookup- 
on four of the faces. 


376 


MOINA 


"Of course you are .prepared to prove u*is?" 

"Then you do not deny it?” 

"I do not chose to waste words now. Proceed. Upon 
what do you base these assertions?” He has not once 
changed his position; his attitude is as easy and careless 
as at first. But his eyes meet and hold those of his 
chief accuser who draws himself back slightly as if to 
brace himself anew for the struggle. 

"I will not enter into details,” began Lugas, "unless 
it is by your desire. The chief accusation is this; that 
you have introduced yourself into the household of Miles 
La Croix, and ingratiated yourself with him, until, by 
some strong, and undue influence, you have drawn from 
him secrets of the organization which should never have 
gone beyond the hands of the executive — the council. 
That he has made you his confldantNand so placed our 
society and all its interests in jeopardy, we — ” 

"Stop." Makofski^s voice was lifted and is taking on 
a sterner tone. 

"Then it is not I alone who am accused?" 

"There is no other.” 

’'Answer me. Has Miles La Croix been accused?" 

"Miles La Croix is our chief.” 

"Perhaps you wish me to think this outrage is author- 
ized by him?" 

"There are certain things," says Lugas slowly, "which 
M. La Croix puts quite out of his hands. These inves- 
tigations, for instance." 

A moment Makofski looks into his eyes in silence, hold- 
ing his glance, while a strange, slov/ smile curls his lips, 
then — "You are an able man Dr. Lugas,” he says quietly. 
"If only you had supporters like yourself — " and he casts 
a glance of open scorn upon the men on either side. 
"Permit me one more question. Does Miles La Croix 


SECTION NUMBER FIVE 


377 


know that I am here, entrapped in his house, and on trial 
to night?” 

One of the strangers starts suddenly. ”What’s that!" 
he asks. 

"What do you mean,” demands M. Lugas. 

"That sound — I heard something.” 

Lugas glances swiftly over at Carptain Fernand, but the 
latter sits unmoved and indifferent. Then he turns to 
Crashaw: 

"Are you sure there is no one here?” he asks sharply. 

"No one except ourselves,” replies Crashaw impatiently, 
"what you heard was a noise outside in the street.” 

"It didn’t sound so,” avers the man who had heard 
the sound. "Didn’t you hear it?” turning to Passauf. 
But Passauf shakes his head. He never wastes words. 

"Crashaw’ s assurance is quite sufficient,” he says and 
turns back to Makofski, resuming as if there had been no 
break in their dialogue: 

"Since you have been here,” begins M. Lugas slowly, 
"three separate pieces of work, all planned here, and 
fully known to Miles La Croix, and to no one else under 
this roof, have been brought to naught. It is impossible 
that any one outside of this house could have betrayed 
them, because they certainly were only known to the 
Chief of Council and to two others who are beyond 
suspicion. ” 

"And who, no doubt, I see before me,” bowing ironic- 
ally to Lugas and then to Crashaw. "Since you are 
fully convinced that I am familiar with the ^pieces of 
work,’ you of course will not hesitate about going into 
details.” 

"I will refresh your memory. It is quite safe to do so,” 
with a significant glance around the table. "Nearly six 
weeks ago, the mills of a certain man were to have been 
exploded. The plan was perfect.” 


378 


M0INy4 


“Really, and it failed?” in a tone of polite interest. 

“And it failed. The men who went to do the work 
found every avenue guarded. The next morning this brief 
notice appeared in the newspaper,” — he leans across 
the table and pushes a small newspaper clipping toward 
Makofski, who takes it up and peruses it with much ap- 
parent interest: 

“To Whom It May Concern: The owner of the golden 
fleece mills would inform the persons, who last night 
made an attempt on his property, that they are marked 
men. Let us alone, is our motto. Hands off gentlemen. 
Nothing else will save you.” 

“Very interesting,” he comments; “is there anything 
more? ” 

If he is seeking to arouse the anger of his icy-faced 
opponent, he is not succesful. The man takes up the 
slip replaces it in a small pocket-book and resumes: 
“Less than Iwo weeks ago it was decided that a heavy 
blow must be dealt the enemy. It was determined that 
two men in high positions and of great wealth must be 
so dealt with that they could work us no ill. Through 
them all the other men organizing against us were to 
have been warned and intimidated.” 

“A double removal, you mean — we are not squeamish 
here, M. Lugas. Well?” 

“Well, as you know, //zA. scheme failed. Those two 
men were warned. It was impossible to reach them.” 
He pauses again and puts away the pocket-book, which 
has remained in his hand, with the air of a man who 
has made an end to something. • 

Fernand Makofski draws close to the table. His face 
has suddenly grown very grave and stern. 

“Is that all?” he asks. • 

“Is it not enough?” 

“Answer me. Have you other charges to bring?” 


SECTION NUMBER FIVE 


379 


1 “Only that which naturally follows this one. That of 
being a spy in the camp, a traitor to our 'cause.^” 

Instantly Makofksi throws back his head and draws 
himself erect. ^ Now" he says, “let us understand each 
other. Let us waste no more words. You have chosen 
to accuse me, to try me without a hearing. I know you 
and your order well enough to know what that means. 
Already you have condemned me! Stop!" as there 
arose a movement as if in dissent above the table. “You 
would never talk thus freely to a man whom you expected 
to see go out from this room alive and free. What 
mode of execution have you chosen?” 

He is leaning across the table and toward Lugas, as 
he speaks, and his eyes have suddenly become very 
alert. The two men on either side of him have drawn 
back a little and are intently watching his face. 

“You mistake,” said Lugas, still coldly calm, “we offer 
you terms.” 

“Terms! You!” 

“Yes. What we ask is that you leave this country and at 
once. You will be safe enough in France. If you will 
promise to remain here until morning, under guard, of 
course, and as a prisoner, and to leave by the next steamer, 
seeing no one meanwhile but your guards; we ask no more. " 

“And my guards; who are they?” 

Lugas turned his gaze toward the two strangers: 

T thought so.” ,He makes a sudden backward move- 
ment, pushes aside his chair and stands erect before them. 

Afterwards, as they think of it, it seems to them that 
his two hands have all the time been visible upon or 
near the table, but, as he draws himself erect, they see 
a revolver gleaming in each, and those nearest him note 
that a tiny drawer in the table is half open. One of the 
weapons is aimed at Lugas with the swiftness of light- 
ning, or so it seems to them. 


380 


MOINA 


"If one of you move, I will shoot down your leader'! " 
he says grimly, "You have had your little half-hour; I am 
about to have mine! You are going to execute judg- 
ment on me, but I have something to say first. If you 
meditate any harm to that old man who is made your 
blind tool in so many things, you will live to rue it. 
For myself I scorn to deny )’our charges. But for that 
old man, I declare, / swear, to you, that no hint of 
these plots of yours has ever passed his lips; nothing, 
7iothing! He is only too loyal to the cause he has ideal- 
ized in that poor half-turned brain of his. As for me, 
don^t fancy that in anything I am your dupe I Do you 
think that I do not know that from this moment, 
although I may go out from here free, I am a doomed 
man? I have seen the vengeance of the council reach 
across oceans and continents. I know that, to you at 
this moment, unless I can clear myself of these charges, 
I am already dead! Unless I can bring before you the 
one who has betrayed your foul secrets, if they have 
been betrayed, an assassin lurks for me at every corner." 

With the glistening weapon still pointing at his head, 
Lugas rises and faces the man at bay. 

"Can you bring forward the betrayer then?" 

No answer. 

"He must be self-confessed, mind. Are you able to 
prove that another and not yourself has denounced us in 
these three instances? Can you?" 

Still no reply, only scorn in eyes and on lips. 

"Will you?" 

"No." 

"But I can!" A voice rings suddenly behind him. 
"And I will!" 


CHAPTER LIX 


VINDICATED 

The curtain behind them was suddenly swept aside, 
and there in the open doorway, the darkness of the 
room behind her making a weird background for her 
plea, strained, beautiful face, stands Moina La Croix. 

“I can tell!” she says again, and sweeps forward, and 
stands at Makofski’s side. 

Even then, startled and pale though he is, t'ernand 
Makofski keeps his hold upon his weapons, keeps his 
aim sure. 

They are all upon their feet now, but she does not 
heed them. 

Her eyes are fixed upon him. 

'Tt was I who betrayed you,” she cries. ‘T, Moina La 
Croix! This man is innocent. It was I who did it!” 

"Miss La Croix, Moina, for heaven^s sake cease! ” 
cries Makofski. 

“Don’t stop me. There mu'st be no more room for 
doubt. My father is not to blame. He never meant to 
betray the secrets of your wicked council. But he talked 
in his^leep, and I sat by his bedside, night after night 
and listened. By and by I found that he would answer 
me so, and when he began to talk upon a certain subject, 
I led him on, and he never knew.” 

“Moina! Oh, hush! Do you not see — ” 

“You must not stop me. 1 must tell all quickly. I 
wrote to these men whom you meant to injure or de- 
stroy. I wrote in such a way that they must believe me. 

381 


382 


MOIhlA 


Don’t you understand? This man is loyal to your mur- 
derous order. I wish he were not." 

In some emergencies thought takes the place of words. 

While Passauf and the two strangers stand aghast, 
Crashaw and Lugas each leaped to a conclusion — that 
Crashaw is for Moina, or rather for himself as she 
represents his interests. “She must be saved from the 
consequences of her folly." That is what he assures 
himself, and in the same instant Lugas is thinking; 
“We have made an enemy. This blunder must be re- 
paired." The two men exchange a few swiftly whis- 
pered words. 

But Moina has not yet spoken her last word. She sees 
the two strangers range themselves near the door opening 
into the hall, and then as Lugas and Crashaw confer to- 
gether, she sees Passauf make a stealthy movement 
toward the door behind her, by which she has just 
entered. 

Instantly she springs back and standing in the door-way 
she puts up her hand and brings into view the tassel of 
an old-fashioned bell-cord. 

“Stop where you are!" she cries, “or I will call the 
police! " Then as Crashaw utters a sharp exclamation 
and even Lugas starts, she adds: “Did you think I 
came here alone? There is some one down-stairs; I have 
only to ring to bring the police into the house. Rufus 
Crashaw, take these men away; promise me that Captain 
Makofski goes free and unharmed, and I swear that you 
shall find me with my father." 

“Miss La Croix, " says Lugas coming suddenly for- 
ward, “answer me one or two questions.” 

“Ask them." 

“When you sent those letters of warning, did you sign 
your name?" 

“No." 


yiNDlCATED 


383 


“Did you give the names of any one — any of the Coun- 
cil or Circle?” 

"Do you think I wished to condemn my father? How 
could I denounce you, who have been his associates, with- 
out betraying him? Be at ease on that score. My sole 
wish was to save innocent lives, to prevent murder. The 
name of the Order is safe." She turns once more toward 
Rufus Crashaw. 'T mean what I say Rufus Crashaw, ” 
she says firmly. “I know that I am at your mercy now 
because of my father. I have thwarted you thus far, 
but I did not know how nearly fatal to another my work 
would prove.” 

All this time Makofski has stood with his weapons 
still in his hand. Now he drops one of them into a side 
pocket and brings therefrom in it’s stead a tiny whistle. 

“Gentlemen,” he says; "allow me to second Miss La 
Croix’s request, that you leave the house at once, also 
let me inform you now that I was not quite unprepared 
for your attack.” He lifts the whistle to his lips. “At 
another time I shall be quite ready to resume this in- 
terrupted conversation; now allow me to suggest, that 
this house is still my abiding place. Miss La Croix is 
still mistress here.” He turns toward Moina who yet 
retains her hold upon the bell-cord. “Miss La Croix, is 
your maid within call?” 

“Yes,” in a low tone. 

He glances at her face and then he moves so that his 
broad shoulders form a screen between her and the 
others. •» 

Again it is Lugas who speaks. Signs and glances have 
been rapidly exchanged and the two burly strangers have 
already moved toward the door. 

“Captain Fernand, you are a man of the world. I ad- 
dress you as such. Miss La Croix’s confession has alto- 
gether exonerated you, and on our part all is as if the 


384 


MOINA 


events of the past hour had never occurred. It would 
not become me, as an agent of the council to say more. 
At another time, and as an individual, I shall hope to 
express myself more fully and in a better manner." 
He pauses, and Makofski bows silently. “As for Miss 
La Croix," he goes on, “we are willing to accept her 
parole, upon condition that she goes directly from this 
place to her own home, under such escort as we shall 
appoint. That she shall not mention this night’s events 
to her father, and that she sees no one, and that she 
communicates with no one, until we shall have conferred 
with her again, which we will do to-morrow. We will 
then tell her our decision, as regards herself and her 
father.” 

Moina answers without leaving her place in the shad- 
ow of the doorway. “I shall remain here to night. To- 
morrow morning I will come. I agree to all the rest." 

“And I," says Makofski, “with Miss La Croix’s con- 
sent, will be the one to see her safely from this place 
to her own home and to her father’s protection." He 
looks intently at Lugas, and the latter rightly interpret- 
ing the glance, thinks it best to agree, in spite of 
Crashaw’s frown 

There is little more to be said. The burly strangers 
are the first to go out and down the stairs, the others 
following, and Captain Makofski brings up in the rear. 

At the foot of the stairs stands Minna, a look of anx- 
iety upon her face. The street door is ajar. 

“Go up to your mistress," says Makofski as he passes. 

When Minna enters Miles La Croix’s dark chamber, 
she finds Moina lying across the threshold between the 
two rooms, in a dead faint. 


“How is she? Has she recovered?" It is half an hour 
since Minna lifted her new mistress in her strong young 


VINDICATED 


385 


arms and laid her tenderly upon her father’s bed. It is 
Captain Fernand pacing up and down in the next room 
who asks the question of Minna entering through the 
connecting door-way. 

"Better sir; but — " 

"Then tell her that I must speak with her. It is nec- 
essary. " 

Ten minutes later they are face to face in Miles La 
Croix’ studio, where the discreet Minna has turned on 
the lights and drawn down the curtains. 

Moina is very pale still, and a strange tremulousness 
has overtaken her physical self. Her hand trembles and 
her voice is unsteady, but she betrays no other sign of 
emotion, as he enters and stands before her, begging her 
not to rise, and asking in the same breath, if she feels 
strong enough to tell him, how she happened to be there 
in that house, at such a time. 

What she tells him may not be quite coherent, and 
is certainly a little deficient as to motive, but it seems 
to satisfy him, and his eye kindles from time to time 
as if he heard a something between the words. 

"I had my own latch-key," she said. "We entered 
with that expecting to find Margot; but she was gone, 
and my own rooms and the drawing-room were locked ; 
through some oversight papa^s room had been left open, 
and while we stood in the door-way debating what we 
should do, we heard the street door open, and Rufus 
Crashaw’s voice below. We heard a few words and 
then — " 

She blushes rarely and her face droops as he leans 
toward her. 

"You heard some words; tell me truly did you know 
the plot that was hatched against me?" He is standing 
close beside her now, and she finds herself saying bro- 
kenly: 

Moina — 2S 


386 


MOINA 


"I — I feared, something, and when I heard those men 
below, I — I dared not go away or make myself known.” 

There is a low hassock close beside her, and quietly 
seating himself, he suddenly takes her hand. 

"Say rather that you bravely dared to stay. Moina, 
do you know that you have saved me from death this 
night; yes from death. I had no suspicion of this plot, 
this attack. The two burly ruffians were the men who 
were to have made an end of me. But for you I should 
be at this moment lying dead up yonder, or fighting for 
my life against desperadoes.” 

She is weak and trembling still from the excitement 
of the past hour. She is a woman, and reaction must 
come. 

“Oh!” she says wildly. “Have you escaped? Are you 
quite safe even yet?” 

“I think so. I hope so for the present, certainl5^ But” 
— leaning closer and still holding her hand — “Moina, 
Moina in an hour like this be frank with me; tell me — 
for if it be true, this life which you have saved will be 
of far more value for the knowledge — did you come here 
to night and brave these would-be butchers for my 
sake? to save me?” 

No answer. Her hands trembling in his, head drooped 
lower and yet lower, cheeks from pale to red again. He 
bends closer, bowing his head, and gently raising hers, 
their eyes meet for just a moment. Then her face is 
hidden upon his breast, his arms are clasping her close. 

“Moina !” he whispers above her head, “Moina, be- 
loved, mine!” 


CHAPTER LX 


THE LAST ASSAULT 

Moina went to her new place of abode the next morn= 
ing, and after an interview with M. Lugas (Crashaw 
she declined to confer with), assumed her place in the 
new house very much as before in the old. Lugas had 
exacted her promise not to go away from the new house 
except it be with her father, himself, Crashaw or Rene 
Savareis in attendance; not to write to or in any way 
hold comunication with any one outside of this circle; 
not to ^ouch the books in her father’s possession, or 
in any manner attempt to inform herself further con- 
cerning the doings of the ^group.’ 

And having received such promise, M. Lugas was 
satisfied. He knew Moina La Croix well enough to 
believe that, having given a promise no matter how 
reluctantly she would keep it in the letter and the spirit. 

In ^return for all this Lugas engaged that her father 
should remain in ignorance of all that passed, and that 
Captain Fernand should be exonerated and reinstated, - 
held innocent and so declared. 

During the week that followed, Rene Savareis was often 
with the La Croix’ and Captain Fernand sometimes. On 
one or two occasions there came a few rare moments 
when Captain Fernand and Moina found themselves 
alone together. 

"Tell me," he said at one of these times, "if I should 
choose to go away for a little while, could I trust Savareis 
to bring a message to you? Would you wish it?" 

387 


388 


MOINA 


“Yes, oh, yes, “she said quickly. “You may trust him. 
He admires and likes you, and — I am a little in his con- 
fidence. ’’ 

And so it came about that one day when Rene was 
with him in the old house on B — street, he approached 
the subject in a manly and straight forward way, and 
told him of his regard for Moina La Croix, admitted 
that there were reasons why he could not claim her open- 
ly at present, and begged that Rene, in case of need, and 
in his absence, would stand her friend. 

“Of course, “ said Rene having given the required 
promise, “you know of Crashaw’s pretensions?" 

“Yes, and that is one reason why I speak thus to you. 
I may have to be absent from the city soon, and in the 
meantime if all were known she might be much annoyed ; 
you understand?” 

Savareis nodded, and closed the lips half open, to tell 
him that he need have no fear since Rufus Crashaw was 
looking elsewhere for his rival. 

“I will not speak of it,” he said to himself. “He may 
not understand my motive.” And so by this bit of del- 
icacy, Captain Makofski was left in igorance of the fact 
that Rene Savareis was looked upon, by Rufus Crashaw, 
as his successful rival. 

Ah, Rene Savareis that kindly meant reticence is yet to 
cost you dear; yes, dear indeed! 

Margot returned to the house on B — street in the morn- 
ing after the. adventure therein, and Makofski continued 
to occupy his room there, Margot serving his meals, and 
performing the duties of the small menage with the help 
of a half-grown girl. The weather was still mild and 
every evening found him strolling and smoking, for an 
hour or more in the little oblong park near the house. 

It was here that Lugas found him one evening several 
days after the investigation, that had been so nearly fatal 


THE LAST ASSAULT 


389 


to Captain Fernand and his plans. The astute doctor 
had come in person to assure him that all has been “quiet- 
ly explained and settled," without any dissatisfaction. 
To proffer the olive-branch and make one of the circle as 
of old. He had called first at the house he said and had 
been directed thither by Margot. 

Makofski had received him affably, and the two, having 
disposed of the business which had brought them to- 
gether, were pacing up and down under the trees, smok- 
ing in amiable concert. 

"Do you often come here?" asked Lugas, “it seems a 
quiet place to smoke and think.” 

“Every night, now that I am alone. These open-air 
smokes used to be a part of my nightly routine for years," 
was Captain Fernand’s reply. 

“Is it not just a little bit lonely?" 

“Well it’s not much frequented, if you mean that. 
And it’s not too well lighted. But it suits me." 

And so the second week approached its end and Friday 
night comes. 

There is a light wind abroad, and the air is moist 
even at sunset, and at dusk there is a soft haze envelop- 
ing everything. 

"It is going to rain," said Margot to herself standing 
at the street door and looking up and down through the 
haze, and then as she hears a noise above stairs, “My 
word, the captain has not gone out yet, and its half 
an hour later than usual." But even as she says the 
words he comes down-stairs, a large traveling bag in his 
hand. 

“Ah!" she cries seeing this, “Ah! captain, what is 
that?" 

"It’s for the laundryman’s boy. He will come for it 
soon, I think." 

He steps outside and looks up and down in his turn. 


390 


MOIN^ 


whistling a few bars of a light Russian air, and Margot 
draws back. 

"Here you are," he says in a moment, breaking off in 
the middle of a long note as a boy appeared at the foot 
of the stairs, "and here is the bag." He hands it down 
to the boy and turns again to Margot, and says, "I may 
be out late to night; you need not wait for me. I shall 
want nothing." He goes down the steps, the boy with 
the valise moving on a few paces ahead of him, and 
Margot closes and locks the door. 

At half past eight the little oblong park is very quiet. 
Its walks are solitary, when Captain Fernand enters. He 
glances carelessly about him. Two men just outside, and 
seemingly half inclined to enter, draw back and make a 
feint of passing on, and down the street. Evidently their 
promenade is an aimless one, for they turn at the near- 
est corner and stroll back, halting at the gate again. 
Many moments go by while they stand thus. A police- 
man glances at them carelessly and when he is a few 
paces beyond turns and looks back. Then he crosses the 
street, and out of sight of the two at the gate confers a 
moment with a brother officer. 

"They’re on hand," he says, "ready to be nabbed." 

"Well," declares No. Two, "we’re ready to nab them, 
only it’s too soon. Let’s get through;" and they cross 
the street feigning great interest in each other. 

And now, walking slowly, and not too close together, 
two others approach the little park. The two officers 
have become more in earnest. They do not seem so 
much as to see the large man with shabby clothing, nerv- 
ous gait, and half-averted face, nor his companion who 
is like him in dress, but smaller, and who swaggers as 
he passes them with a bold stare. 

As these two latest comers approach the gate, they 
slacken their pace, draw nearer each other and cease 


THE LAST ASSAULT 


391 


their conversation. They seem quite oblivious to the 
two men standing in the shadow of the trees, but quite 
near. 

Standing thus, they can hardly help hear one of the 
two men just beyond them say in a voice slightly ele- 
vated, "All right Charlie, ITl be there." The next mo- 
ment they have passed through the gate and are quickly 
lost to sight among the shadows. 

As they go, one of the officers says to the other, "Hear 
that? That's the signal. Come; let's make our round 
up. " 

Five minutes pass, and then ten. All is still in 
and about the little park. Within, a spark of light seems 
to be advancing toward the entrance. The two men still 
conversing without, draw closer to the low paling. The 
fier)^ spark comes nearer, quite to the entrance, and then 
it stops and the smoker stands pulling hard at his cigar 
and making it glow still brighter through the gloom. Is 
he going to leave now? The men without almost hold 
their breath. But no. He turns, he is going back again. 

"Come," whispers one of the watchers; "now is our 
time." They move out from the shadow now, and stand 
waiting for the smoker to put a few more paces between 
them. 

"Come," whispers the leader, but even as he speaks 
he has the sensation of something springing upon him 
from the rear and feels a strong grasp upon his shoulder. 
Something cold touches the back of his neck, something 
that makes him shudder. 

"Not a word, " says a low voice. "Not a sound. Move 
on and be quick about it." 

They are in the grasp of the policemen and two others 
are hurrying across the way. It is too late to run. Re- 
monstrances are of no avail. Fernand Makofski still 
keeping his cigar fiercely alight, passes alone under the 


302 


MOINA 


trees and through the shrubbery which grows dense in 
places. Suddenly he stops short, stretches out his arms, 
yawns audibly, and then deliberately seats himself on 
the rustic bench with one arm thrown across the back 
and his cigar in his fingers. It grows dim and dimmer 
while he seems lost in meditation. "Pshaw!” he mutters 
quite audibly, and then one might fancy, if one were 
listening, that he was trying to light a fresh cigar. Ah! 
and there are listeners, for as if the sound were a signal, 
something springs upon him from the bushes in front, 
something grasps at him from the rear. 

Is he taken by surprise? It would seem so, for he 
makes no outcry, almost no resistance. He utters a 
sound barely loud enough to be heard ten paces away, 
something between a gasp and a hiss and he wrenches 
himself free from the detaining hands behind him and 
throws himself forward, downward on one knee. Then 
half a dozen forms seem to have sprung out of the dark- 
ness, and there is a struggle going on, fierce but short, 
and amazingly silent. 

When it is over there are no dark forms lying prone 
upon the pathway to be found at dawn by the park 
policeman. 

Instead two figures handcuffed and drooping are led 
from the scene by a double brace of policemen and Cap. 
tain Makofski is marching at their head. 


Early in the morning a bit of comedy is enacted at the 
station where the two loiterers at the little park gate 
have reluctantly passed the night. 

Rudely aroused and only half awake, they are hurried 
into the captain’s office, and there confronted by a little 
man who eyes them from head to foot and turns to the 
officer in charge: 


THE LAST ASSAULT 


393 


"This is a fine brace of birds to bring before me! ’ he 
says loftily. "Who are they anyhow? They’re not the 
men I’m after. Turn ’em loose.” 

' "Case of mistaken identity,” says their captor indiffer- 
ently. And soon, in the gray of the morning, cold, hun- 
gry and enraged, they find themselves free men once 
more. 


CHAPTER LXI 


THE SURRENDER 

Captain Makofski led the way toward the park en- 
trance followed by a silent party, captors and captured. 

Here two carriages were drawn up close to the curb, 
and well in the shadow. Before these the party halted, 
and the leader addressed the Makofski in a half whisper. 

“How shall we go?" 

“Take your man, three of you, and follow my carriage; 
you know where to go.” In another moment the prison- 
ers were separated and the two carriages were driving 
rapidly up town. 

When the last carriage came to a halt, and the three 
officers alighted with their prisoner, he lifted his eyes 
to where a light streamed out across the pavement, and 
saw not the police station but the stately door of a man- 
sion. He recoiled with a wild, hoarse cry, and made a 
frantic effort to throw off his guards. 

But they were too strong for him, and he found him- 
self being forced up the marble steps over the threshold 
and into the wide hall. Then as the door closed behind 
them, he cast a wild glance about; Captain Fernand and 
his fellow-prisoner and the two officers all had disap- 
peared. 

The man began to tremble violently, and the leader of 
the three officers pushed him toward a high-backed, an- 
tique chair. 

“Sit down,” he said, not unkindly, ‘‘you’re nervous, 
man.” 


394 


THE SURREl^DER 


395 


The prisoner dropped into the chair. "In God’s name," 
he cried, "why have you brought me to this place?” 

"Don’t be impatient," said the other, "you’ll soon 
know. '' 

Meanwhile in a room above, two men were talking 
earnestly, one of them making certain strange changes 
in his general appearance, by removing false beard and 
wig, and working off some disfiguring stains and pig- 
ments, as he conversed. 

"I don’t think it would do at all, Ken," he was say- 
ing. "If I know anything about human nature, it will 
only add to his obstinacy if you undeceive him now. 
For the present let him think of you as a prisoner like 
himself, or as having deserted him at the last moment. 
You can help me but in that way and the crisis has 
come, Ken. I am playing my last cards." 

A few minutes later, Kenneth having gone and Drexel 
appearing himself again, he called to the officer below 
to bring up his prisoner. Again as they led him for- 
ward, the prisoner halting at the foot of the stairs, drew 
back and made a futile effort to free himself from his 
captors. 

"Fer God’s sake, don’t take me up there!" he cried. 
"I won’ t go! " 

'‘Yes you will! Come man, don’t give yourself worry. 
You’re not going to be hung— yet." 

And seeing his helplessness, he again submitted and 
was led reluctantly upstairs. But at the sight of an 
open door toward which they were about to lead him, 
he recoiled again. 

This time no words were wasted in urging, and the 
helpless and now trembling man was borne bodil)^ 
through the open door, and left standing alone in the 
very center of the room, with his guards arranged in a 
line between the door and himself, and with two men, 


390 


MOISa 


the one standing and the other seated, just opposite him. 

The room was a bed-chamber — a gentleman’s room, 
evidently. 

"Turn up the lights, Bates," said Roger Drexel; and 
as Bates obeyed he approached the prisoner and touched 
him on the arm. 

"Look up, Joseph Parker," he said. "Mr. Lord, will you 
take a look at this man?" 

Elias Lord, paler and thinner than of old, and with more 
gray in his thick hair, came slowly toward the agitated 
prisoner and looked long and earnestly into his face. 

"Yes," he said, "that is the man who entered my room 
nearly eight months ago, and pinned a letter of denunci- 
ation over my sleeping head with a keen pointed dagger." 

He turned abruptly to Bates. "Give the man a seat," 
he said. 

"Well," he said to him, after a moment’s hesitation, 
"what are you going to do with me?" 

Something like a gleam of amusement flashed across 
the face of the old banker. 

"Pm afraid I can’t give you parole when the clock 
strikes two," he said, "but on the other hand, I won’t 
constrain you to stay with a revolver at your head. Your 
friends might not know just where to look for you! " 

The prisoner winced. 

"However," went on Mr. Lord, "I am glad to find that 
you’re a man of your word. You recollect you said pos- 
sibly you would come again!" A pause; the prisoner 
writhed in his chair. "And you know I said I would be 
ready for you. As to when you go, this time, I shall 
leave it to this gentleman to decide — when you go and 
how. " 

"Bates," said Drexel, "you and your men may wait 
outside and come when you are called. Mr. Lord’s serv- 
ants will look to your comfort. You understand?" 



CAPTORS AND CAPTURED —Moina, p. 394. 



398 


MOlN/i 


"Quite, sir.” Bates opened the door, and when his 
men had passed out, followed. 

When they were alone, Drexel, Lord, and the prisoner, 
the former drew up a chair and seating himself directly* 
ii^ front of Parker, addressed him. 

"Joseph Parker, less than three years ago you were an 
honest man, with a good trade, a home, a wife, and lit- 
tle children. You were respected and your conscience 
was clear. Why have you thrown )^ourself away like 
this? What has dragged you down?” 

Suddenly the prisoner’s head went up. He answered 
with a sort of dogged defiance. 

"If I was to tell you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he 
cried. "Want and hunger, no work and starving chil- 
dren drives many a man to crime; better men than me, 
or you, maybe. Ask that old man there, what he knows 
about want and temptation. It’s wrong for such men 
as you to judge such men as me. Drop this now. You’ve 
got me; make an example of me." 

His face had turned an angry red. 

"And when we have made an example of you, what 
will become of your wife and your little ones?” 

The man writhed in his chair, and again great beads of 
sweat stood out on his temples. "God! ’ he cried, "this 
is hell itself 1 Curse you! why do you say these things? " 

"Because— look at me well, Joseph Parker — I am the 
man whom you tried to murder to-night. And if I 
brought you here, instead of sending you to prison, it 
is because I believe you have still some manhood left, 
and if you do not disappoint me, it is in my power to 
save you, to make you a free man once more, and send 
you, with your wife and children, away from this city, 
with the means to begin life elsewhere — a new life.” 

Throughout this speech the man has gazed at him with 
incredulous eyes. 


THE SURRENDER 


399 


What — what does it mean?" he gasps out; "what do 
you want me to do?” 

Drexel takes from his pocket a slip of paper, evidently 
placed there in readiness. It is small, soiled and crum- 
pled. He holds it before the prisoner’s eyes. 

Parker looks, looks again and closer; turns pale, 
clutches at the paper and cries loudly: "You have rob- 
bed me! I — I — where did you get that? Give it to 
me." 

“Not so fast, and sit down again, Parker. No matter 
where I got this now, I have it as you see, and this is 
what I want in exchange for your liberty; first, I want to 
know the full meaning of this slip of paper, where you 
got it, and from whom. What use did you make of this 
post-office address, and of the address of Lawyer Fal- 
lingsbee. Mind, I have a clue to this matter.” 

"X can’t," breaks in Parker, "there is nothing to tell." 

"Next,” goes on Drexel, "I want to know who set you 
to enter this house, with the help of the Spider, and lit- 
tle Hans? Ah, that surprises you. You see I know 
something about these matters. Also, did you have lot 
or part in the murder of poor Harvey, on that very bed, 
in this very room.” 

"No, no!” he cried," I swear it! Ididnot! Ididnot!" 

“Next and last, I want to know the names of the men 
who set you on to murder me to-night. Come, you were 
caught in the act; you can’t deny that.” 

Suddenly Parker turned and looked toward the door 
as if searching for some one. 

"Where is my— the man that was with me?” he asked 
quickly. 

"Never mind him. You can’t have the benefit of his 
advice. If he gets off easy it will be because we came 
to an understanding with you. If we spare you we shall 
have to let your friend go, of course.” 


400 


MOINA 


"Who are you that you know, or think you know, so 
much? Tell me that?” 

Drexel leaned toward him, and whispered a few words 
in his ear. The effect was magical. 

From pale to red, and back to pale; fear, anger, re- 
sentment, all speak in his face — he is upon his feet once 
more. 

"So!" he cries, "this is the trap you have set for me. 
All the rest was not enough, and you must add this. If 
you fear me, if you want to kill me, do it! I hate you. 
Yes I hate it all. Til curse you, all your guilds and cir- 
cles and groups with my last breath. Bloodsuckers that 
prey on the workingman— that’s what you are. But I’ve 
betrayed no one nor nothing! I’m not food for your 
butchers yet!" He stops, overcome by his own vehe- 
mence, and Roger Drexel realizing that his moment has 
come, and fixing his eye with his own clear magnetic 
gaze speaks: 

"Joseph Parker, ever since I chanced to hear you ex- 
press yourself as being no longer a dupe of the order 
you have just denounced, my eye has been upon you. I, 
like yourself, have lived to repent my alliance with the 
brotherhood. It is because I am fighting it to the death 
that I am here, and you are here — you see I am not 
afraid to speak. Now, either you give me the truth and 
to help me to crush the men who are making the order 
a curse to the earth; or you are going to prison. I will 
not be thwarted in my purpose. If you help me, you and 
I will, in a month’s time, be rid of our enemies. What 
do you know of the old man they call the Spider? What 
do you know of Rufus Crashaw? of M. Lugas? of Jules 
Passauf? Tell me the truth." 

The man cowered away from him and dropped back in 
his chair. 

"Oh, heaven help me!" he cried; "my wife and chil- 


THE SURRENDER 


401 * 


dren! If I am not back, if I cannot give a good ac- 
count of myself this time, my wife and babies will be 
made to suffer, if it were not for them — ” 

"I can't stand this,” bursts from the lips of Elias 
Lord. ‘‘Let's give him a proof of our good faith, ” he says, 
meeting Drexel's eye. The latter nods and for a few 
moments all sit silently waiting. And then the door 
opens and Joseph Parker sees with startled eyes, his 
wife and his little ones — all there before him clean, 
smiling, freshly clad. 

‘‘Oh, Joe!” cries the wife, ‘‘thank these kind gentle- 
men, both of them; they have given us a home, and they 
say your troubles about the work and all, are at an end.” 

• Dazedly he gazes from wife to children, and then back 
to the two men beside him. 

‘‘What does it mean?” he gasps weakly. 

‘‘It means this, Joe, ” Drexel replies, ' you can stay 
here, in this house, where no one will ever dream of 
looking for you, safe and protected, with wife and little 
ones, until these rascals are caged or driven out of the 
country. ” 

Still the tortured, bewildered man looks from one to 
the other. Then suddenly he turns upon Elias Lord. 

‘‘Do you promise this?” he cries; ‘‘promise upon your 
honor? You.” 

“Upon my honor, upon my soul. As I am a gentleman 
and a Christian, I promise.” 

A moment he bows his head upon his hands, then lift- 
ing it: 

‘‘Come what will,” he cries, "ril be a free man again, 
or die! ” 

Motna — 26 


CHAPTER LXII 


THE PRINCESS IN REVOLT 

It is morning, the morning following the eve of the 
attack upon Captain Fernand, and, although it is very 
early, the Princess Sacha Orloff has breakfasted and is 
waiting a visitor in her charming little drawing room in 
the Occidental. 

An hour has passed since she was aroused by her maid, 
who standing at her bedside held a letter before her 
sleep-laden eyes. 

And this is what the lady read, sitting erect amidst 
her linen and lace. 

''Madam \ — The time has come. Expect me in an hour. 
And pardon the unusual time. Moments now are as val- 
uable as human lives. Hurst." 

Just as the last of the sixty seconds is ticked off by 
the French clock on the mantel, the curtain is drawn 
aside, and "Hurst the detective" — Roger Drexel — stands 
before her. 

He is as calm as ever, but her quick eye notes the un- 
usual pallor of his face, and the lines of weariness about 
the dark eyes, none the less keen for that, and the un- 
usual sternness of the firm set lips. 

There are no formalities between them at this mo- 
ment. Not an instant is wasted in feeble conventional 
greetings. "Madam, I must beg you to command your- 
self," he began. "I have much to say and little time in 
which to say it. I have fulfilled my promise, and the 
time has come when I must claim yours. When we parted 

403 


THE PRINCESS IN REVOLT 


403 


in this room, not so long ago, you uttered these words: 
Bring me Basil Petralowski, if he is alive, or the truth 
concerning him, if he is dead, and I swear to render you 
any service within my power, anything/ Madam, have 
you forgotten?” 

"No,” she articulated. “Tell me — haye you found 
him?” 

“I have found Basil Petralowski.” 

“Alive?” The word comes from between pallid lips. 

“Dead.” 

“Wait,” she murmurs, and sits motionless as before. 
Presently she speaks in low, measured unnatural tones. 
“Do you know how he died?” 

“It was murder — at least I believe it was treachery.” 

“Tell me everything,” she said, and there is a new 
look in her face— a look that bodes ill for someone. 

“It is a long story,” he begins; “in fact, to make you 
understand all as I wish, you must listen to two or three 
stories interwoven, all with the same beginning and the 
same end, all involving those of whom you now mosP 
wish to hear.” 

“Whom do you mean?” she broke in, “of whom do I 
most wish to hear?” 

“Unless I mistake you altogether, you wish to hear, 
above all else, of the men who brought Basil Petralow- 
ski to his death.” 

“You are right! ” she said, quickly. “And now we un- 
derstand each other.” 

From that moment there was, on her part, no more 
mystery, no denials; the secret of her interest in Basil 
Petralowski’ s fate was a secret no longer. 

“When you put your case before,” he began, “giving 
me, however, only half confidences, I had two other mat- 
ters of interest and importance in hand, in my capacity 
of detective. I believe I signified as much to you.” 


404 


MOWA 


“Yes.” 

“One, the first to occupy my attention, because most 
attractive to me, through my being strangely drawn to 
the chief actor in it. From first to last, if indeed it is 
yet ended, it was a sad tragedy. Briefly this is the 
story: One night, a Sunday night, while the worship- 
ers were pouring out from a certain popular up-town 
church, a gentle, innocent, harmless old man was shot 
down in the street. It chanced that two of my acquaint 
ances were so near at hand that they were able to reach 
the spot before the assassin had left his victim’s side. 
Indeed he had not made the slightest attempt to escape. 
He gave himself up willingly, and neither then nor after- 
ward, would he open his lips as to the murder. He 
would not give his name, nor his motive for the deed. 
When his trial came on he refused to accept counsel and 
he pleaded guilty without attempting to establish an 
extenuating circumstance.” 

“Gracious heavens!” in spite of herself she had grown 
interested in the weird story; “and was that allowed, 
here, in this land of justice?” 

“It would not have been. The court was on the point 
of naming a lawyer for his defense when the head of 
one of the first law firms in the city came forward, and 
announced himself as counsel for the prisoner. But all 
was in vain. The strange man would not talk with him, 
would admit nothing, deny nothing. In such a case, 
and with the prisoner pleading guilty, what could a law- 
yer do? The man was condemned, and he died upon 
the scaffold mutely, a mystery still.” 

“But the lawyer? I can’t comprehend. You say he 
retained him?” 

“Ah, no, not the prisoner. There was another mystery: 
the lawyer, a Mr. Fallingsbee was retained by an anony- 


THE PRINCESS IN REVOLT 


405 


mous correspondent, who paid a large fee but did not 
make him or herself known.” 

"Not to the prisoner?" 

"Not to the prisoner. But, let me finish the story. I 
had grown interested in this strange case and the strange 
mute prisoner. I obtained admission to his cell. I tried 
to gain his confidence. I had not known the man whom 
he killed but as the trial progressed I chanced to see his 
picture, and I was struck with its resemblance to a man 
I knew well. And suddenly upon that, together with 
such knowledge as I had of this man and his victim, for 
I was with the condemned man at the end, I put my new 
belief to the test and learned two things.” 

"And they?” eagerly. 

"First: This man who was about to die had belonged 
to a powerful secret society.” 

"Ah. That explained the lawyer and his fee.” 

"That is how I reasoned. And next — the man was 
expiating a worse than useless crime. He had killed the 
wrong man.” 

"Ah, heavens! ” 

"This much the unhappy man did not deny. But his 
admissions ended there.” 

"And you never learned his name?” 

"Not from him. I have learned it since, as well as 
much of his melancholy history. Having discovered 
that Jacob Traill had died because of his' fatal resem- 
blance to another, I next turned my attention to that 
other. I readily settled upon Elias Lord as the right 
one. ” 

He has spoken the last words scanning her face, and 
he sees her start as he spoke the name. 

"Elias Lord!” she ejaculated. 

"That is the name. You have heard it before per- 
haps? ” 


406 


MOINA 


“Never mjnd that now.’’ She has controlled herself 
again. “Go on.’’ 

“Elias Lord was an active worker against a powerful 
secret society that was seeking to overthrow the present 
order of things. Elias Lord was an open enemy, I say, 
and had been marked by his foes. I know this much, 
and I also know that this great society had recently be- 
come doubly dangerous, doubly formidable because of a 
new element with power in its hands, which had lately 
come into it at the fountain head, from over the waters. 
I had already determined to devote myself to the task of 
unearthing these new leaders, and of driving them out 
of the country, when I was summoned into your pres- 
ence, and heard as much as you then choose to tell me 
about Basil Petralowski and his disappearance. Shortly 
after the death of the mysterious, nameless prisoner, 
I was at the house of Elias Lord, and there I was made 
acquainted with a young girl, a Miss Moina La Croix; 
my hostess had crossed the water, quite recently in Miss 
La Croix^ company. On board was also the father of 
Miss La Croix. There were two other passengers who 
were presented, my hostess told me, to herself, and, 
mark this, to Miss La Croix and her father.’’ 

“Yes.” 

“I left the house a little in advance of the lady, and, 
upon coming out — my detective training made me at once 
aware of a man, a spy, in fact, who was watching the 
house. Naturally, I in turn watched the spy and 1 soon 
found that he was shadowing Miss La Croix. I fol- 
lowed her home, and I followed him ; by so doing I was 
so fortunate as to see the two other passengers, who had 
been presented as strangers to the young lady and her 
father, enter the La Croix* residence quite like familiars. 
The names of these two men were Rufus Crashaw and 
Rene Savareis.” 


THE PRINCESS IN RE'/OLT 


407 


"I see,” murmured the princess. 

“Shortly after my meeting with you, a horrible thing 
happened. There was a dinner party at Elias Lord’s. 
Miss La Croix was one of the guests. She came and went 
early, and just upon the heels of her going, an infernal 
machine, introduced into the house, no one knew how, 
exploded in the hands of the host, injuring him seri- 
ously. ” 

“What?”' cried the princess. 

“Does that surprise you? Well, upon questioning the 
servants it was made to appear that Miss La Croix stood 
for a moment by the table from which Lord took the 
fatal box, and it was thought that she had something 
in her hand.” 

The princess made an impatient movement. 

“It did seem indefinite; of course an investigation was 
begun at once and I then learned from one of the ladies 
of the family, that Mr. Lord had been the recipient 
of at least two warning letters. I obtained possession 
of these two letters, and, while searching in other di- 
rections, as I was bound to do, I put the La Croix, 
Savareis and Crashaw all under close surveillance. Before 
that time, and for the sole reason that you had roused 
vague suspicions in me, by not being more frank in tell- 
ing me your story, I had also put a watch upon you." 

“Ah — indeed! ” 

“And you may fancy my surprise when, after some 
days, one of my men reported to me that you had re- 
ceived two visitors, one of them being Rene Savareis, 
and the other — my spy, whom I had seen following 
Moina La Croix.” ^ 

Madam the princess draws a sudden sharp breath. 

“M. Hurst,” she exclaims, “you are a clever man.” 

“Thank you. Do you begin to see the denouement?*' 

“Ho — not altogether. Pray, continue.” 


408 


MOINA 


“Having learned this, 1 determined to know more. In 
following up Crashaw, I have found a certain M. Lugas 
often with him at the La Croix’ ; I include M. Lugas 
among my subjects for inquiry. I also include the 
names of the Prince Viadimei Orloff and Basil Petra- 
lowski. “ 

“Ah! ’’ The eyes o. the princess flash'ed angrily now. 
But she curbs her speech, and he goes on unmoved. 

“In due time my reports from Europe begin to flow 
in. You may have heard the name Bolossy?” 

She starts and nods assent. 

“There are three of them, all detectives, one at Pans, 
two in Russia — much that is most valuable comes from 
them. I know the source, and so have no need to ques- 
tion the reports." 

He takes a folded memorandum from his pocket. 
"Permit me to read a few paragraphs taken from M. Bo- 
lossy’s documents. It will help you to follow me the 
more readily." 

“Read them." 

“It is but a paragraph out of pages, please recollect." 
He begins to read. “Madam La Princess Orloff. This 
lady is thought by many, to be secretly interested in 
matters political, the late Prince Orloff having been one 
of the bitterest of the enemies of the revolutionary party, 
and her father also. It is thought that the princess is 
perpetuating their work. Certainly she stands high in 
diplomatic and official circles. 

“There is another rumor, that the princess, while as- 
suming to be devoted to the party of the palace, is in 
reality in sympathy v^th the nihilists, and that a cer- 
tain active revolutionist, who disappeared from Odessa 
more than a year ago, under circumstances the strang- 
est, was in reality her devoted friend. Rumor is divid- 
ed as to the cause of her leaving Russia. By some this 


THE PRINCESS IN REVOLT 


409 


young man is thought to be the magnet. But generally 
it is supposed that the mission of the princess abroad 
is strictly political in the Russian sense of the word." 

"That is," comments she, "a spy." 

Drexel lays the memorandum down upon his knee. 
"You will see," he goes on, "by this, how, after hearing 
of M. Savareis and the man known to me as the Spider, 
in connection with yourself, and after reading this," tap- 
ping the paper, "I was ready to connect you with the su- 
perior councils. But now I will hasten on. I had ar- 
rived at the point when I thought it best to keep a re- 
doubled watch upon all. I also wished to find the old 
man known as the Spider, for I had traced the dynamite 
box to him. He will soon be arrested. Do you not see 
the end?" 

"Not quite. Having learned so much, why was it nec- 
essary for you to carry on that monstrous masquerade? 
Why did you drag Fernand Makofski from his grave, 
assume his character, and in that character seek shelter 
under Miles La Croix* roof?" 

"Need you ask that? Because, then, my information 
was too general. Because I needed to know the role 
each man was playing in this desperate game. Because 
it was the quickest and surest way of learning their in- 
nermost secrets, and in order to get these men into my 
power, I must know them. It was the surest way." 

"And the most deadly dangerous." 

"I assumed the name of Makofski because I chanced 
to know enough of the man*s history, and of Russian 
affairs to enable me to enact the role. Because, too, I 
knew it was the role most likely to open all their, doors 
to me." 

Madam the princess rises and paces the length of the 
room — something is rousing her, stirring her strangely. 

"Man," she says, at last coming back to her place, 


410 


MOINA 


"you have no doubt been in many perilous situations, 
braved many dangers. I believe you are a fearless man, 
but I shudder when I think of the risk you have run and 
are still running. I will not ask you why you have done 
all this. We are past motives. But tell me — in mercy^s 
name, why have you told me — me of all women — this story 
of your daring? Do you know what you have done?" 

He pushes back his chair and rises and faces her. 

"Because,” he says sharply, "I have reached a point 
where I can no longer act alone. I must have help, and 
you, of all human beings,are the one who can and must 
help me." 

They are face to face now, and she draws herself to 
her fullest height and looks in his face. 

"When I pledged myself to do anything that was in 
my power, in return for knowledge that would have been 
priceless to me, I was sincere in that promise. I am 
ready to fulfill it now — money, any sum is yours, when I 
have heard all. Any other thing that is mine to give, 
but — if you mean to ask me to help you in hunting down 
these men, you are asking what is not in my power." 

She comes still closer, there is a ring of triumph in 
her voice. "And this is why. Of Rufus Crashaw, M. 
Lugas, Miles La Croix, as men, as personalities, I have 
nothing to say. I care nothing. As members, officers 
if you will, of a great organization, I must say this: 
You have made a mistake, sir detective, in being 
thus frank with me. You have shown your hand. I 
now will let you see mine. I shall warn these men at 
once. I cannot permit harm to come to them, for they 
are the members in a society in which I hold a place; 
the place of their superior, their dictator, if I chose to 
use my authority. Those men, whatever their misdeeds, 
are useful to our order, M. Hurst. You cannot harm 
them through me." 


CHAPTER LXIII 


LIFTING THE VEIL 

Again, as on another night, when Fernand Makofski 
was arraigned before the dainty tigress, she throws back 
her head and awaits his answer in triumph. This time 
she is sure of her victory ; her position is unassailable now. 

But again, as on that other night, his face is inscru- 
table. 

“Madam,” he asks as if arguing his case, “do you then 
act as their executive? Am I to understand that you 
have sanctioned the deed by which Mr. Lord^s servant 
lost his life?” 

“I have said I know nothing of that deed." 

“Nor of the dynamite box?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Were you, perchance, aware that three separate at- 
tempts to assassinate ‘Fernand Makofski’ have failed?” 

“No! Is that true?” 

“Quite true. But there is still another question. 
Knowing the truth why did you allow me to continue 
the masquerade in the character of Captain Makofski?” 

“I will be frank. First, I was not given the authority 
I now hold, until quite recently, and I have rot yet made 
that authority known to the council." 

“Ah, I see." 

“Next, I let you go on because I was over-anxious 
about my own interests. I even fancied that your pres- 
ence in the house of La Croix might be needful in my 
interest, in some manner." 


41 


412 


MOINA 


"And you were right. Madam, you have been too hasty. 
If you will now resume your seat I will finish that which 
I wish to say. And as you have declared yourself against 
me, let me tell you what the service is which I expect 
and ask at your hands." 

"Go on." 

"First, in the general reckoning, Miles La Croix, his 
daughter, M. Rene Savareis and one other must go un- 
scathed. No harm must reach them. Perhaps you can 
see now why I do not wish to turn all this over to the 
police?" 

"I see. Go on," she says. 

"Second, the man called the Spider and some others 
of lesser importance will be left to the private police, 
or detectives. Third, I look to you to rid us, this city, 
your order, the world if need be, of three men.” 

"Their names?” 

"Crashaw, Lugas and Passauf." 

"You are mad! " 

"We will see. Let us now go back to your friend 
Basil Petralowski. " 

"To Basil — ah! ” She is in her place again, and he 
sits down opposite her. And now he hurries on, paying 
little heed to her interruptions. 

"Among the other questions sent to Bolossy, in Russia 
was this: 

"What can you learn of the last six months of B. P. 
spent in Russia? 

"Here is his reply, in brief words: 

"He was connected with the revolutionists and de- 
voted to their cause. He was denounced, and a certain 
man, high in favor, asked for authority to deal with the 
culprit. This man, said Bolossy, had a private grudge, 
some say an injury to avenge. He had a fair wife and 
it is just whispered that there was jealousy at the bottom 


LIFTING THE VEIL 


413 


of the feud. This man, he would not give his name 
but stated that he, soon after the disappearance of 
Petralowsl^i, contrived to get his way. First Petralowski 
was sent to Paris on a trumped up secret mission. 

"Arriving in Paris he found himself among strangers 
and denounced as an emissary of the Russian Police. 
A mock trial resulted in a, what they called, test of loy- 
alty. He was to prove himself by going to America with 
sealed orders, that is to say, to execute some plan which 
would only be revealed to him when in New York. 
There was no alternative. He knew he coiild never return 
to Russia until he stood acquitted of the charge of dis- 
loyalty to the circle. He consented to sail for New 
York. And now, just as he is about to sail, he encounters 
a familiar face — the face of a man calling himself Crai- 
zon. Craizon was once a traveler in Russia visiting 
parts of Siberia, some of the penal settlements and mines, 
and many of the Russian cities, sight seeing under the 
protection of the czar 

"Ah," she cries. "Vilest of all. An alien spy. A 
spy for hire alone.” 

"That is it. Well this spy for hire, this man with no 
wrongs to right, had met Petralowski in Odessa, and he 
renewed the acquaintance, for he chanced to come to 
New York on the same steamer." 

"Chanced? Ah, I see." 

"Once in New York, however, the two men separated, 
meeting seldom and only by accident. And now I will 
read to you a portion, at least, of a confession, made 
and taken down last night. It is the confession of an 
unfortunate man who had been made the tool of others, 
and it contains the sequel to what we know of Basil 
Petralowski." 

He has taken a second paper from his pocket, and 
opening it he at once begins to read. 


414 


MOiriA 


The document is formally begun, giving date of writ- 
ing, and full name of the "deponent,” but Drexel hurries 
over this, and omitting the name of Joseph Parker 
wherever it occurs, reads on, composedly, while she list- 
ens with growing emotion as the narrative progresses. 

Much that he read in detail, that his story might be 
complete in every point, need not be repeated here. We 
will take up the record at a point touching upon the 
fateful tragedy of Basil Petralowski. 

" ‘It was at the time when so many men layout of work 
for so many months, and so I did not wonder much that 
no work was found for me. The council paid me my 
weekly allowance, or rather Craizon did. He was dis- 
burser for my district, he said, and so time passed on 
until one day, I was sent for to attend the meeting of 
the special committee. It was Craizon again who notified 
me.^ " 

"Craizon?” broke out the princess. "Do I know that 
man, M. Hurst?” 

"Patience; you shall see.” 

"Do I know the writer of this confession?” 

"I think not. Permit me to go on.” 

"Go on then. ” 

"‘I was present at this meeting, part of the time wait- 
ing in an ante-room, and of course not hearing all that 
was said. It seemed that a man was wanted who could 
be trusted to do a bit of business for the order of which 
I had been made a member. I was first sworn to secrecy 
and then told what I had to do. It seemed simple 
enough. I was to answer an advertisement.^” 

"Ah!” ejaculated the princess, then, as if vexed with 
herself, "Go on pray.” 

" ‘I was shown the advertisement; it was simple enough. 
It was like this: "To S. C. and J. C. From Paris to 
New York. Yesterday. Await your commands. Medium.” 


LIFTING THE l^EIL 


415 


And the number to which a reply was to be sent fol- 
lowed like a pos!script/ 

‘‘‘They told me to take a pen and write like this:^ 

■' ‘Medium. Appoint a place of meeting, and give me 
a sign for to-morrow a. m., as soon as I accost you put 
this note into my hand, and receive your instructions. 

‘‘‘S. C. and J. C.’ 

“ 'I wrote this down and then it was posted. The next 
day I was at hand at the hour appointed and was sent 
to receive the reply from ‘ Medium.” It was there and 
said, as nearly as I can remember:^ 

” ‘Central Park, at Eighth and Seventy-ninth streets. 
Young man, tall, brown eyes and hair. Will carry un- 
derneath arm a lacquered cane with carved onyx head.’” 

‘‘Ah, heavens!” almost shrieks the princess, but he 
reads rapidly on. 

” ‘That was the answer and they gave me my instruc- 
tions. I expected to carry a letter, but they schooled 
me to say certain words which were almost meaningless 
to me. I remember all of that message; how could I 
help it?’ 

‘“Well, I went to Hunter’s gate, and there was the 
young man with the onyx-headed cane. He was very 
handsome but pale and with a troubled look in his eyes. 
Something about his look and his voice when he spoke 
made me think that he was not an American. I set him 
down as being a Frenchman. I went up to him and said, 
‘‘Good morning, Mr. Medium,” as if that were his name. 
He looked me over a moment and then said, ‘‘what can 
I do for you, sir?” ‘‘Give me my note,” said I. This 
satisfied him and he gave me back my note.’ 

‘‘ ‘Then standing close beside him I repeated to him 
these words:’ 

‘‘ ‘This is the decision of the council. They will not 
receive you. It is best for those who are to remain and 


416 


MOINA 


work here, that you do not meet. As for you, as soon as 
your mission is accomplished, you will return to Paris 
and from thence to Russia, as the bearer of papers which 
we shall send, for reasons which you shall comprehend 
from this port to Paris via post.^ 

“ 'When I had said these words I saw his face light up 
and I heard him whisper “Back to Russia, ” as if he were 
glad to go. Then I went on:’ 

“ ‘These are the commands of the council. A certain 
man is to be transferred. If he remains here he will do 
harm to the cause. This is your work. He must be gone 
before you can leave. All is left to you as to method. 
It will not be difficult.’ 

" ‘When I had said this, I paused and waited for a 
reply. I never saw a more ghastly face. He seemed 
turned into stone. He did not look at me, nor speak, 
and so I went on and uttered the closing words of my 
verbal message. 'Remember your oath.’ I said. ‘Do 
this and you go back to Russia free and vindicated. This 
is final.’ 

“ ‘Then the man groaned so loud I feared he would be 
heard. 

“'My oath,’ he said, not to me but to himself. ‘God 
forgive me!’ And then I suppose my stare brought him 
to his senses, for he looked at me fiercely for a moment 
and then asked. 

“‘Is there anything more?’ 

“‘I told him nothing, except a card, and this I gave 
to him. It contained the name and address of the man 
who was to be “transferred” and some notes of instruc- 
tion how to find him; I knew that much, but the name 
and all the rest wqre written in French. As God is my 
judge, I did not know the meaning of any part of that 
message. If I had— but it’s no use saying that. I did 


LIFTING THE VEIL 


417 


not know nor guess, not until after, and I never saw the 
young man again after that, but once.’ 

"'They paid me so well for this hour’s service that for 
a month or more we got on very well; but still there 
was no work for me, though I kept trying. Then, in 
about five weeks, they sent for me again, this same "ex- 
ecutive. ” This time I was to secure a postoffice box 
at one of the suburban offices. It must be a lock-box, 
and after getting it I was to contrive to get alerter into 
the hands of a certain lawyer, a Mr. Fallingsbee. I got 
the postoffice box and the next morning got the letter 
into the lawyer’s hands. The next morning there was 
a letter in the box. I took it to the "executive" and for 
two or three weeks thought little of the matter. Craizon 
had found me a place to work.’ 

"'But one day I dropped in at Ohm’s, that is the sa- 
loon where I first met Craizon; there I picked up one of 
the illustrated police papers and saw there the picture of 
a murder. It was the murder of an old man who was 
killed as he was going home from church. As I read it 
I came across the name of Lawyer Fallinsgbee. Some- 
thing came over me then, and I could not rest until I 
had seen the man who had done the killing. I don’t 
know now what I expected, but I was uneasy until the 
trial opened and when it did I left my work and hung 
about the court. It was two or three days before I 
caught sight of the prisoner, not until all was over 
and he had been condemned, in fact, and then — ah, can 
I ever forget it? — It was the young man I had met in 
the park! Then I was half a madman. I went in search 
of Craizon and when I found him I almost assaulted 
him.’ " 

"Tell me — tell me now who was the young man with 
the brown hair and eyes; the young man who died — on 
— the — scaffold?" Her voice is husky now. She is bend- 

Moina — 27 


418 


MOIN/1 


ing toward him clutching his arm in a vice-like grip, 
“Tell me. I can endure this no longer.” 

“Perhaps it is best. That young man, sacrificed as 
much as was ever his victim, was — Basil Petralowski.” 

“I knew it!” she whispers; “I feared it from the first. ” 
And then she tottered to her feet, her face full of an 
unutterable woe. 

“Have mercy upon me!” she articulates. “Leave me — 
just for an hour.” 

What man could refuse? Not Roger Drexel, even 
though his moments now are so precious. He goes down 
to the office and there passes an uneasy hour. 

When he returns to the boudoir he finds the princess 
awaiting him, and so haggard that he could easily have 
imagined her to have passed through, not an hour but a 
year of woe. 

“I am waiting,” she says. And then as he takes his 
former place, “I think before I fully understood, in 
speaking of this — this prisoner, you said you were with 
him at the last?” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell me more. Was he calm? What did he say to 
you?” 

“Very little, except to thank me for my interest. I 
besought him to trust me, to let me serve him, but he 
did not comply. There was no complaint, no repining; 
he was firm, manly to the last.” 

“Thank you.” 

For a moment she bows her head; then, ”1 can under- 
stand it,” she says in a strangely hushed tone. “He could 
not tell you his story, could not leave any message for 
us, for his mother or for me, without revealing the 
whole truth. Don’t you see? he must tell how basely 
he was entrapped and betra3'ed, or brand himself as a 
willful murderer. He would die in silence rather than 


LIFTING THE VEIL 


419 


that — ” And lifting her head suddenly, "he knew me^ 
he knew that letting me know the truth through you, 
would be simply to leave me a legacy of vengeance. 
Ah! Basil, Basil, by dying in silence you hoped to 
spare me. But it is not to be. And you shall be 
avenged. Yes, and vindicated." Her voice is still calm, 
but it is a fearful calm. "Am I not right, you who 
knew him — say, was he not a martyr?" 

"And a hero.” Adds Drexel gravely. 

"A martyr and a hero — yes. And was he not also — 
betrayed?” 

"Without a doubt." 

"Tell me, tell me without” more words, who betrayed 
him?” 

"Do you not guess?” 

"I dare not guess! Tell me!” 

"Madam La Princess, I will be more generous to you 
than you were to me an hour ago; and yet my enemies 
and yours are identical.” Again he takes the roll of 
memoranda from his pocket, and casts his eye down 
the page. "Did you ever hear of this man Craizon be- 
fore to-night?” 

"I seem to have heard the name, but can recall noth- 
ing. You say he has been in Russia?” 

"Yes. Permit me to read two more extracts from M. 
Bolossy. It concerns this Craizon,” beginning to read. 
‘The man calling himself Craizon, is an Englishman'who 
was once engaged in manufacturing pursuits with an 
elder brother, who bore with him until forbearance 
ceased to be a virtue, and then providing for him lib- 
erally, only stipulating that he never returned. We next 
hear of him in Russia; there is no evidence' that he had 
an active hand in the disappearance of young Petralow- 
ski; but it is known that he made the young man's ac- 
quaintance at St. Petersburg, that he left for Paris just 


420 


MOINA 


one week before the disappearance of Petralowski — that 
the two met in Paris; and that they embarked for New 
York on the same steamer.” He puts down memoran- 
dum, and asks abruptly: “Did you know Rufus Crashaw 
abroad?” 

“No; why do you ask?” 

“Because the man Craizon and Rufus Crashaw are one 
and the. same; and the others who aided him are, M. 
Lugas, Jules Passauf and a man, whom as yet I have 
not been able to run down, by name, Tausig. ” 

“Crashaw, Lugas?” She stares at him as if lost in 
amazement. 

“These are the men. And now let me tell you so much 
as I can of their plot against Petralowski. You admit 
that he had powerful enemies in Russia?” 

“I admit everything. The time for concealment is 
past. B^sil Petralowski was my playmate in childhood, 
my comrade in youth. He was my only friend. I loved 
him, but I was a wife, and he was an honest man. We 
never met save in his mother^ S' house and in his mother^ s 
presence. Prince Vidimei Orloff was all evil. He could 
not conceive of such a state of affairs. One day there 
was a terrible scene at the castle: he accused me of car- 
ing for Basil and I owned it, and gloried in it, and defied 
him. He threatened — threatened us both, but nothing 
seemed to come of it, and when, sometime after, Basil’s 
mother gave a little note of farewell, and told me that 
he was sent to Prussia upon an affair of state, we be- 
lieved it. It was only when he never came back, that 
we began to fear and doubt. Then the prince died. 
Ah, heaven! How plainly I see it all now. Upon his 
dying bed he told me that he was leaving me all his 
fortune, for he was certain now that when he was dead, I 
would be no more to Petralowski than to him. It was 
after that that I received those few words from this side 


LIFTING THE VEIL 


421 


of the water. I see it all. They had sent him to Paris, 
and there accused him, and tried him and offered him 
the choice of coming to New York on a secret mission 
or of taking the black letter.” 

“What is that?” 

"A death-warrant.” 

"Once here,” she hurries on, "he learns for the first 
time what it is he has sworn to do. I wonder if you 
know how terrible their oaths are?” 

"I think I do, but go on.” 

"He knew himself entrapped. He wrote me on the 
eve of that awful deed. He did not mean to escape. 
And if he had tried those men would have betrayed 
him.” 

"No doubt.” 

"But at last they are unmasked. Tell me, what were 
you about to ask of me when — ?” 

"When you turned upon me and took Crashaw and the 
rest under your protection?” 

"Don’t waste words,” she cries impatiently. "What 
did — what do you want?” 

"Are you ready to help me now?” 

For answer she puts out her hand. 

"You have yourself told me that in the organization 
which they represent here, you hold by recent appoint- 
ment, a superior position.” 

"Yes,” impatiently. 

"Is it not in your power to depose, then?” 

"I? Yes,” reluctantly. Then, "Listen,” she says. "Did 
you ever hear of one Sharlan?” 

"Yes, he is the brain, the power, the leader of leaders; 
a wonderful man.” . 

"At least he is not an assassin. He is devoted heart 
and soul to a cause which, mistaken or not, he believes 
in. This man is, as you say, the captain par excellence. 


422 


MOINA 


The master, he is called. Well this man is my friend; 
this man believes in me. It is .because he believes in 
me, and because he has begun to doubt his agents here, 
that he has so lately put authority into my hands. I 
am frank; do you be the same. Will it really serve 
your purpose, be all sufficient, if I deprive these men 
of their power?” 

‘‘Yes, the rest I shall be equal to. Only give me time 
to remove an old man and a helpless girl, to get them 
into a safe shelter, and then the law can deal with these 
miscreants. I have enough proof against them.” 

‘‘The law!” she cries aghast; ‘‘you would give them 
over to the law?!’ 

‘‘Why not? Are they too good for it?" 

‘‘Good! Bah! Tell me how would the law punish 
them? the best and the worst?” 

‘‘They would be forced to leave the country at the 
least. Imprisonment perhaps for life, at most.” 

‘‘And will that satisfy you?” 

‘‘To break up this dangerous band, to save those now 
menaced — to free Miles and Moina La Croix — that is 
all I dare wish for.” 

‘‘And Rene Sa^^areis?" 

‘‘I am that man^s friend. He must not come to harm. 
But he is your friend and they know it. He is also 
Crashaw^s protege.” 

‘‘You talk of saving Miles and Moina La Croix,” she 
says slowly. ‘‘Do you know that they are comparatively 
safe? It is to their interest to keep Miles La Croix as 
their nominal head. As for his beautiful daughter — ” 
here she fixes her dark eyes upon his face — ‘‘they are 
not likely to harm her, so long as, there remains a hope, a 
chance, that she may be forced or terrified into marrying 
Rufus Crashaw. ” 

‘‘Good heavens! ” 


LIFTING THE VEIL 


423 


"It is Rene Savareis who is in present danger.” 

“How? Why?" 

"Because innocently, and to protect herself, Moina La 
Croix has begged him to stand between herself and Cra- 
shaw, in the character of an accepted suitor." 

Swiftly the blood flows back from his face. He makes 
a sudden stride toward her. 

"It is false!” he cries. "It is not true. Moina La 
Croix is --good heavens,” trying to speak more calmly. 
"Pardon me and tell me what you mean.” 

She comes close beside him now, and lays a white 
hand upon his arm. 

"At last we begin to understand each other," she says 
almost gently. "You must understand me. Moina La 
Croix is beautiful and good. She trusts Rene because 
she knows the secret of his unfortunate regard for my 
unworthy self. Her father has chosen to fancy them 
lovers, ^d has told Crashaw as much. Do you under- 
stand me now when I say that Savareis is in danger? Cra- 
shaw sees in him a rival.” 

"I do, and I see in this one more reason why we 
must act promptly. Once again, will you aid-me as I 
wish?” 

"I will aid you. Will you trust this business to me? 
Give me two days time, and let me act in my own 
way. I promise you that no more mischief shall be 
done. ” 

"But are you sure? Are you strong enough?” 

"Listen. I am telling you everything. My own au- 
thority did not come to me by post or express, but by 
the hand of an accredited messenger, Sharlan's confi- 
dential agent, known to these men as such. I shall^call 
him to my aid. Together we can hold their hands. 
Meantime I shall make my report to Sharlan. By the 


424 


MOINA 


time his answer comes you will have rescued your 
friends the La Croix. Is not that best?” 

"You promise me this?” 

“This and more. By all that you have done for me, 
by my faith as a woman, by the memory of Basil Petra- 
lowski, I swear it.” 


CHAPTER LXIV 


A MAD ERRAND 

Keenly alive as he had been, from the first, to all that 
concerned Moina La Croix, the knowledge that Rufus 
Crashaw sought her hand, and that he was in a position 
to urge his suit, that it was in his power even to intim- 
idate her, was as gall to Roger Drexel. 

“I must see Moina,” he says to himself, as he hastens 
to his rooms. "How will I take her from among these 
wretches, and who can help me?” And then in an in- 
stant he says aloud, "Madeline Payne, of course!" And 
so he hurries on once more to don the disguise of Cap- 
tain Fernand, and in it to seek Moina. 

"What will she say when she knows me as I am,” he 
asks himself. And his heart answers, "love can not 
change, and she loves me." 

He enters his room, and at once pounces upon a letter 
which he finds lying just inside the threshold, pushed 
under the door by some deft hand. 

It is addressed in Kenneth Hosmer’s hand-writing, 
and wondering what Ken can have to say so soon, he 
tears off the envelope and reads. 

"One O’clock, a. m. 

"Dear Guide, Philosopher and Friend: — After I left 
you I threw off my disguise with a big grunt of thank- 
fulness, and, as it was yet early, I sauntered round to the 
hotel where Savareis was quartered. He was there, just 
as you had told me. Better still, for me, he was packing 

425 


426 


MOIN^ 


a small grip, preparatory to leaving town. S — was 
wondrous glad to see me, and promptly told me why. 
He was going to Chicago, at an hour’s notice, on business 
connected with the S. C. It was a trip under sealed 
orders. He was to be the bearer of certain packages, pre- 
sumably of circulars and pamphlets for private circula- 
tion, and he was intrusted to find a companion for the 
journey, a ‘brother^ of course. When I heard his plain- 
tive, ‘Do go, old fellow, I don’t know any men,^ I 
‘attached’ myself at once, and we go by a morning train. 
And now, you know as much about my flitting as I do: 
Chicago; no disguise, but assumed names, (mine is 
James Parrish.) Sealed orders; a secret delivery, 
sounds interesting doesn’t it? ‘We return,’ says Sav- 
areis ‘as soon as the business is done.’ Good-bye, old 
man. No use my trying to see you. I know how busy 
you are now. 

“Yours faithfully, 

“James Parrish. ’‘ 

“Gracious heavens!” ejaculates Drexel, dropping the 
letter and making a hasty metamorphose. “I must know 
what this move means! ” 

When he is once more disguised he consults a railway 
time-table which tells him that the first train for Chi- 
cago, a through mail, is probably leaving at that moment, 
and that another “limited” goes in a little less than two 
hours. 

“They can hardly have gone by the fast mail,” he 
muses hopefully. “I can make the next, I think, and see 
Moina in the meantime.” And once more he sets out 
and drives at a reckless pace toward the new shelter of 
the La Croix. 

It is Minna who meets him and her first words stir 
his heart. 

“Oh, sir, how fortunate! Something has gone wrong! 


A MAD ERRAND 


427 


I am sure, for Miss La Croix is walking the floor and 
looks like death and — " 

He closes the door, brushes past her, and is in the 
little reception room before Minna can complete her 
sentence. 

"Where is she?" 

The words are heard in the dining-room beyond. He 
hears a low cry, and then Moina springs through the 
open door, her hands outstretched. 

"Oh!” she cried, "Heaven must have sent you!" 

Unmindful of Minna, he catches her in his arms, 
while she lets her pale face drop upon his breast, sobbing 
convulsively while yet striving bravely for self-control. 
A moment later, when she lifts her tearful face Minna 
is gone and the door of the dining-room is discreetly 
closed. 

"Moina my dearest," he says, as he leads her to a seat 
and places himself beside her, “pray be calm — we may 
be interrupted at any moment." 

"I know, I know; and everything depends upon you. 
Last night they were here, Crashaw, Lugas and Passauf, 
and they were closeted together a longer time than usual. 
And I knew by the occasional sounds from papa’s room 
that something more than common was being discussed. 
I was very uneasy, for I feared some new evil, and my 
hands were tied. It was very late when they went away, 
but papa did not retire. Instead, he came out into the 
dining-room and walked and walked, and muttered to 
himself. Papa has not been as well as usual for two or 
three days. He is more nervous and excitable than usual, 
he eats nothing, and hardly sleeps. Of course I was anx- 
ious about him, but he would not let me approach him, or 
do more than bring him a cooling drink. His words, too, 
as I caught one now and then were startling; but so dis- 
connected that I could only make wild guesses at their 


428 


MOINA 


meaning." She shudders and for a moment buries her 
face in her hands. 

"Moina,” he cries impatiently, "you know you are be- 
ing tried beyond your strength. This must end, and I 
mean to end it." 

“Hush," she says, putting out her hand. And then 
she hurries on. "He was even too preoccupied to notice 
that I was up, and 1 was too anxious and terrified to 
leave him for a moment. At day-light he was still awake 
but very weary as I could see. I had just coaxed him 
to take some coffee, and he was beginning to show signs 
of drowsiness when Rufus Crashaw arrived and again they 
conferred together fora long time. When he took leave 
of papa, who had followed him as far as the dining- 
room, I heard him say something about, ‘going in person 
to make sure that the men were safely on board, and 
with their luggage properly stored.^" 

She checks herself and listens for sounds from the 
rear room. 

"I thought he was stirring," she says, "it did not take 
much persuasion to induce papa to lie down and rest 
after Crashaw had gone. I sat beside him and put my 
hands upon his head, as I used to do, and, in spite of 
his weariness, he was soon asleep. Oh!" wringing her 
hands, "it is too horrible! How shall I tell the rest!" 

He takes the little trembling hands in both his own. 

"Tell me all, dearest, it is best," he whispers sooth- 
ingly. 

And she goes on with her hands still in his. 

"When I was sure he was asleep, I sat down beside 
him and began to stroke his hands. I meant to try once 
more to make him talk as I did before, you know. But 
I had hardly touched him before he began. This is what 
they are about to do: It seems that there has been a 
plot hatching for weeks, here, and in other cities. The 


A MAD ERRAND 


429 


whole country is to be terrorized. They are only wait- 
ing the signal. At first New York was to give this sig- 
nal, but that has been changed, and now it is to be Chi- 
cago." 

"Chicago 1" 

"Yes. Oh, it is hideous! It seems that two or three 
open-air meetings have already been appointed in differ- 
ent parts of the city, and two or three men are to go 
from here to-day, in order to arrive in time- These men 
are told that which they are to carry, the packages you 
know, consist of books and circulars, to be distributed 
secretly among the initiated. These things are to be 
delivered to certain men who will await them, and they 
are really to contain — oh! it seems impossible ! — they 
will contain infernal machines — explosive bombs such 
as have been used with, such terrible effect in the Rus- 
sian horrors, more deadly even than dynamite! And 
they are to be used to blow up and destroy the chief 
buildings, to throw the city in a panic, and the mobs will 
already be gathered to sack and rob, to attack the rich 
and splendid homes along the lake — " 

"Great heavens!" 

"It is horrible, and it was planned long ago. They 
have only waited to secure and safely store a sufficient 
quantity of the deadly explosive. They have all been 
prepared by two people, an old man and woman, foreign- 
ers. " 

"Oh! did you hear the names?" 

"No, only that the old man is sometimes called the 
Spider.” 

"Moina," Roger exclaims speaking almost breathlessly, 
"my beloved, I believe God has ordained you an instru- 
ment in his hands to frustrate these fiends. I understand 
it all. And now you have still another ordeal before 
you. Can you endure it? I' know to-day for the first 


430 


MOINA 


time, of Rufus Crashaw’s persecution of you. And, 
knowing this, I must yet leave you alone and in his 
hands, almost at his mercy.” 

“Oh, where are you going?” 

"After those men — to Chicago, of course. To save 
hundreds of lives, perhaps, with heaven^ s help and yours. 
Tell me, when did you see Rene Savareis last?” 

“Not since early yesterday, and he promised to come 
to-day.” 

“He will not come. They have sent Rene Savareis to 
meet his death in Chicago.” 

'Rene! Oh, why! why?” 

“Because Crashaw believes him to be your lover.” 

“Ah, heavens!” 

“And with him has gone my dearest friend; gone, be- 
cause I asked him to look after Rene Savareis. You see 
I must go.” 

“Oh yes, yes! ” 

“And a train, which they may take, leaves in less than 
an hour. Moina it is a bitter thing to say, but your 
father’s safety and yours rests with you now. If you 
can hold Crashaw off, if he can be made to believe that 
in time you will yield, he will give you time. It is the 
only way. Can you endure it for a week? I will be 
back in that time, if I am alive. If not, you shall be 
rescued, I swear it. Others will take up my work where 
I lay it down. Moina speak to me.” 

“Go,” she whispers hoarsely ; “go. Save those people. 
I will endure it for your sake!” 

He snatches her in his arms once more. "You have 
Minna,” he murmurs. “Trust her.” 

The moments are flying. He presses one burning kiss 
upon her pale lips, tenderly places her upon the c^uch, 
and goes without daring to lobk back, and while his feet 


A MAD ERRAND 


431 


go hastening down the dimly-lighted corridor, Moina La 
Croix rises to her feet, totters half-way across the floor, 
reaches out her arms, as if to clasp him and draw him 
back, and muttering an inarticulate moan, drops fainting 
upon the floor. 


CHAPTER LXV 


DISSETT 

“This is dangerous business,” Roger Drexel had said 
to Madeline Payne, months ago, when he brought her 
the cryptogram letter addressed to Dr. Clarence Vaughan. 
It is but wisdom to take all possible precautions. If I 
go abroad, you shall have a letter or message every month 
at least. If I am still here, but absent, or for any reason 
invisible for long, you shall hear of me every week. 
When there is nothing to say, and I simply wish to sig- 
nify that all is well with me, I will inclose to you a 
blank sheet. But if at any time you fail to receive due 
notice from me, you will be at liberty to give this letter 
to Dr. Vaughan, and to tell him everything.” 

On the day which saw Roger Drexel rushing on board 
the west-bound express train, at the last moment, en 
route for Chicago, Madeline sat beside her dainty writ- 
ing table running over in her mind the events of the pre- 
ceding week and trying to guess what the complications 
could be which had delayed the coming of the weekly 
signal, which meant, when it meant no more, “All is 
well. ” 

For the past two weeks they had meant nothing more, 
and this in spite of the fact that the previous missive, 
dated three weeks back, had something to say. It ran 
as follows: 

“Dear Friend: — While you seem to be comparatively 
out of an occupation, I am 'in the thick of it,’ and hope 
before many days to have brought things to a crisis. 

433 


DISSETt 


433 


Do not abandon the princess. Unless I am much mis- 
taken, she will yet turn to you for counsel and sympathy, 
and she will need it. As for Mr. Lord, he is quite safe 
for the present, I think. But upon no account must 
yourself or Mrs. Ralston return to that shelter yet. All 
is going well. Adieu. R — D — . " 

At the coming of the first blank note, one week after 
this animated note, she had been surprised and a little 
disappointed. The second had caused her some uneasi- 
ness. And now the seven allotted days had passed, and 
not even a blank sheet was brought to her door. It was 
with troubled face that Madeline unlocked the little 
private drawer where the cryptogram had been safely 
treasured, and laid it upon the table beside the other 
letters and papers. And now she realized with her grow- 
ing anxiety for Roger Drexel was mingled a reluctance 
to summon Dr. Vaughan to her aid, good and true and 
ready to do her service though she knew him to be. 

But Madeline Payne was brave and conscientious and 
in the moment when she fully realized this feeling and 
its cause, she crushed it back, and taking up her pen 
dashed off a brief note, in which she asked Dr. Vaughan 
to call upon her at the earliest possible moment. Hav- 
ing dispatched her letter she rang for her maid. 

“Change my dress, Rose," she said. 

“What will it be?" 

“The white English gown with the soft lace lingarie." 

“Oh, that English gown." Madeline was a woman, 
and she knew no fairer picture was ever seen by man 
than that which she made with her pale blonde loveli- 
ness and stately grace, set off by the simple elegance of 
the charming gown. 

When all was done and she had scanned her image in 
the long mirror, she blushed rosily, and then cast a look 
of frank challenge, and these enigmatical words, straight 


434 


MOIhlA 


at the white-robed figure. “Why not then? Ir is not 
wrong! It is not unwomanly.” 

And while the lovely hue still dyed her cheeks, Rose 
entered and placed a card in her hand. 

“Dr. Clarence Vaughan.” 

What an enigma is woman! In another moment Mad- 
eline was greeting him as frankly, as easily as if they 
had met in this manner always. In the same manner 
was her business told; and then he was seated beside a 
low table with Roger Drexel’s cryptogram letter in his 
hand — 

“Read it,” she said, after her few words of explana- 
tion. “We can talk afterward.” 


Roger Drexel had scarcely turned his back upon her 
and crossed the threshold of her outer door, when the 
Princess Sacha summoned her maid. Through all that 
trying ordeal she had borne herself gallantly, but now 
she was fairly quivering with excitement and resolutely 
pent-up emotion 

“My street dress; the plain black one,” she said impe- 
riously; “and hasten. I may be gone two hours.” 

Walking, swift walking would have best suited her 
mood ; action, movement of some sort seemed a burning 
necessity. But the distance and her haste were too 
great. She could not reach her destination quick enough. 
So she took a carriage, and was whirled on her way. At 
the corner of two intersecting streets, in the quarter 
where “nobody” lives, the carriage halted, and the prin- 
cess bidding the driver wait, walked briskly down a lit- 
tle court, to pause before a weather-beaten frame house, 
bearing upon its street door the familiar sign, “Furnished 
rooms to let. ” 

Here she rang and was at once admitted. 


DISSETT 


435 


"Is my uncle at home?" she asked of the woman who 
opened the door. 

"Yes’m, and I don’t think he’s as well as usual. He’ll 
be very glad to see you, I reckon, and — ” 

But the princess was already half way up the stairs, 
and in an another moment was standing within a large 
"front room," shabby yet comfortable, and evidently the 
constant abiding-place of a man who was accustomed 
to a bachelor existence. 

"Madam!" ejaculates the man who hastens forward 
to receive her. "Madam, is it you?" 

"Yes, Dissett, it is I. Close your door and arrange 
your screen, I have something irnportant to speak of." 

She has given him her hand as she speaks, and he 
knows that it is unsteady, and notes her voice quivering 
with suppressed excitement. Noiselessly he goes about 
doing her bidding and then proffers her his easiest chair. 
But she moves it- away. 

"Don’t ask me to sit; not now!" she says; "and don’t 
question me yet. Just answer.” 

He bows silently and stands expectant. 

"Dissett,” she begins, "I have trusted you and with 
good reason. I suppose that I know you better, know 
more of you than many, than most, but to-night I wish 
to know yet more.” 

"Ask, madam.” He bows submissively. 

"First, explain me this; When you came across the 
ocean in the same vessel with myself, although disguised 
and keeping aloof like a stranger, you told me, upon 
making yourself known, that you had come to serve 
Sharlan and the cause, and intimated- that you were not 
at liberty to tell more— you remember?” 

"I remember perfectly." 

"When you came to me later, and presented that let- 
ter from Sharlan in which he bade me make use of you 


430 


MOIhlA 


as I might, could, or would, I was, as you may remem- 
ber, inclined to look upon you as having been sent to 
keep up an espionage over me. And this explosion 
brought out your statement that you had been sent at 
your own request, and that while you were sincere in 
your belief that you could be of use, by giving informa- 
tion, based upon your point of view, which would sup- 
plement such observations as I could make from mine, 
you had still another object. Do you remember what 
you said then?” 

“I told you that which from your patriotism, your loy- 
alty to the cause, I knew that its interests were safe in 
your hands, here and elsewhere; I also believe that you 
had a double motive for coming to this country. Do you 
wish me to go on.” 

"I will finish. You told me that^I was the friend of 
Basil Petralowski and his mother; and that you knew 
that the lady whom I addressed as mother, was Madam 
Petralowski; that you believed me engaged in an effort 
to learn the truth concerning his fate. And that because 
you had known both his father and his mother you would 
be glad if you could aid me in this. And then we came 
to better understanding, and became allies. But there 
was something else. You said that you hoped to find, 
here in America, a man who had once done you deadly 
personal wrong. And you vowed that to be the first 
object of your life, as to find Basil was the first object 
of mine.” 

"True; all true!” 

"Have you found that man, Dissett?” 

"A trace — yes. I have learned that he was, or is, in 
some way connected with one of the circles, and he has 
disappeared so completely that I imagine that he must 
have taken some other name over here. The one by 
which I knew him had become infamous.” 


DISSETT 


437 


“You knew of him? Did you not know him, then?” 

“I never saw him." 

“Dissett, tell me his name?” 

“His name? The name by which I have traced him — 
Craizon. Madam, madam! what is it? Good heavens, 
what is it! Do you know this man?" And the impas- 
sible Dissett is electrified — is now a new being, quite 
as eager, almost as tremulous as she. And in the look 
which she turns upon him is a strange mingling of eager- 
ness and triumph and fierce anger. 

“Dissett,” she cries, “tell me, I must know, how this 
man has wronged you?" 

He recoils from her, a crafty look in *his eyes. “But 
wait," he breaks in. “Do you know him. Is he, per- 
chance, a friend whom you would warn?” 

“A friend I Ah, heavens!” 

The words and the look are answer enough. 

“Tell me,” she says instantly. 

“I will tell you! This man, this Craizon, found my 
brother, my only brother, little more than a boy, at 
Kara. He, my brother, had been betrayed and had al- 
ready served out five years; in two years he was to be re- 
leased by special arrangement. The government had found 
reason to doubt his guilt. Craizon sought him out, ob- 
tained letters — poor Serge had a sweetheart in Moscow 
— and turned them over to the government — betrayed 
him. You know the penalty? Serge died in the mines; 
died horribly. ” He breaks off suddenly. What a strange 
look on a woman’s face; not sympathy, but increased and 
triumphant hatred. 

“Tell me,” she fairly hisses as she clutches at his arm, 
“if you find this man, what, how can the law punish him 
here? ” 

“The law!" and the man’s face is fearful to see. “Let 
me once find him," stretching out two clutching talon- 


438 


MOWA 


like hands, “and here is the law that shall avenge Serge 
Ivannovitch. ’’ 

“I am here to tell you that,” she cries, “Craizon the spy, 
Craizon the assassin, is known to you as Rufus Crashaw!” 

“Rufus — Crashaw! ” 

“And the destroyers of Basil Petralowski; those who 
are within our reach, are Crashaw— Lugas. ” 

“Ah, that man?" 

“And Passauf." 

There is a long moment of silence. Then Dissett 
asks, quite calmly — now that the worst is known, this 
strange man has suddenly regained his stolidity — 

“You said, 'those within our reach.’ Are there others? ” 

“Yes, but Prince Viadimie Orloff has passed beyond 
our judgment. There must be tools, too, in Paris and 
at Petersburg. But I fear they will not be easily traced. 
It was Craizon who followed Basil to this country, 
after they had bound him by a deadly oath in Paris. 
Sit down. No; first give me some wine, I feel strangely 
unnerved. Then I will tell you what 1 know.” 

And she did, omitting nothing. “You see,” she said 
at the last, “I am bound to this Hurst, this detective. 
How well he has served us both; but for him you might 
never have learned that Craizon and Crashaw were one; 
and I might never have known how Basil had died.” 
And now for the first time there are tears in this woman’s 
eyes. “Ah, pitying heaven! To think that he heard his 
last words! that he pressed his hand at the last! You 
must see him, Dissett.” 

"I? Yes; no. I think my brain is turned. Yes; he 
has done us royal service. We owe him much. Tell me 
again, what does he require?" 

“That I use my power to keep these wretches from 
other murders, which he believes are already planned— 
to force them to leave the country.” 


DISSETT 


439 


“But this is so strange! He has everything in his 
hands; why could he not denounce them to the author- 
ities? ” 

“Because he is as anxious to save and shield Miles 
La Croix and his beautiful daughter, as he is to punish 
the others. ’’ 

“1 see; let me think.” For some moments both are 
silent — then> “Do you agree with this detective?” 

“Listen,” she says her tone softening, “I have told you 
that Madam Petralowski is failing, but you can never 
guess how much. Once my hope was, to add to her 
interest in life, to lengthen her days perhaps, by bringing 
her, sometimes, good tidings of Basil. Now my one 
wish is to keep everything from her until the end.” 

The man sighs heavily, and his head sinks upon his 
breast. 

“At first she was full of hope; but lately, as her 
hold upon life grows feebler, she seems to have been 
given the clear vision. She sees the truth but not in 
its horror.” 

All this has been uttered in short broken phrases, as 
their utterance was painful or difficult, and now she 
clutches at her breast as if the heart within could be 
held in check. “She must not know! It would be an- 
other murder. Yes, there must be no publicity, else all 
might be known to her. 1 look for help from you, Dis- 
sett." 

“Ah!” These are evidently the words he has wished 
to hear. “Trust me. Is there a limit to the time within 
which we must act?” 

“It must be soon. Three persons who are in their 
power are in hourly danger.” 

“What did you tell the detective?” 

“I guaranteed the safety of all concerned.” 

He is upon his feet and is standing before her. 


440 


MOINA 


“Will you trust this to me?” he asks; ”1 believe I 
know how to deal with them, but I must have time to 
think. You shall be informed. You shall understand. 
I may even require your help. Give me one day. “ Their 
eyes meet for just one instant, then fall apart quickly. 
“Trust me,” he urges, “they shall do no further harm. " 


CHAPTER LXVI 


WHAT MINNA KNEW 

"What shall be our first move?" It was Dr. Vaughan 
who asked the question, looking into Madeline’s face as 
if he could find a certain enjoyment in anything which 
gave him such opportunity, grave though the occasion 
was. 

She had told him the story of Roger Drexel’s efforts, 
and her own share in them, beginning with the evening of 
the explosion in Elias Lord’s vestibule, and stopping 
when she had narrated the incident of her call at the 
house on B — Street. All this she had set before him 
clearly and concisely. 

"I have learned from the princess," she said, "of her 
‘compatriot’, known as Captain Fernand Makofski. But 
disguised as he was, I could not mistake his voice, his 
carriage, nor the hand which I saw distinctly. It was 
Roger Drexel. " 

On the way to B — Street, Madeline uttered a sudden 
exclamation. "We are beginning wrong, " she said; "being 
disguised, Mr. Drexel may not desire to see anyone; we 
may be refused admittance at the door. Let us try a 
ruse. Let us leave a note at the door for him." 

This they did, giving the note to a boy. He returned 
shortly. 

"It ain’t no use, sir," he said, giving the letter back 
into the doctor’s hands. "He ain’t there, and he ain’t 
been, the girl says, since last night." 

"What shall we do now?" asked the doctor. 

441 


442 


MOINA 


“You must let me try,” Madeline replied. “If Moina. 
is at home I may learn something. Suppose I leave you 
in the carriage while I make my call.” At the end of 
half an hour she rejoined him, entered the carriage in 
silence, and said as the carriage rolled away: “If Mr. 
Drexel had not stipulated that we were not to call upon 
the police, except as a last resort, I should say, drive 
to police headquarters at once,” 

“Ah! You have not succeeded?” 

“Worse, I found only servants in the house. Luckily 
Margot opened the door. She knew me, and was willing 
to talk. Captain Makofski — she knows him by no other 
name — left the house last night without a word to indi- 
‘cate an intended absence; and the La Croix, father and 
daughter, left this house more than a week ago. There 
must be something wrong.” 

Dr. Vaughan, who had thrust his head out of the win- 
dow, caught a fleeting glimpse of a small figure and a 
grinning face in a battered cap. “What is it?” he 
called to the coachman. 

“Some one’s been following us, sir. He caught on 
behind. He’s followed clear from B — Street, I think.” 

“And now he has got away,” said the doctor, lightly. 
“Drive on, if you please. It was only some street arab. 

I saw him run.” 

But when they were once more on the way, he said to 
Madeline, “I shall go straight back to B — Street. That 
boy who ran away, was the boy who carried my note to 
the door. I can only explain his interest in us in one 
way. ” 

“And that?” 

“That his presence so near that door was not acci- 
dental. If he had been stationed there to report upon 
those who might call, it would account for his interest 
in us.” 


IVHAT MINNA KNEIV 


443 


“You are right,” said Madeline. 

As yet the doctor had but one clearly defined plan, 
and this concerned the boy who had followed the car- 
riage. If he was here as a spy, whose interest did he 
serve? It was an answer to this question which the 
doctor was seeking. He walked past the house, then 
crossed the street, resuming his surveillance from the 
opposite side. A full quarter of an hour had passed, 
the doctor pacing slowly up and down, when a cab came 
rattling up and halted squarely before the door, and, 
almost before the wheels had ceased to revolve, someone 
sprang out, and Vaughan could see as she ascended the 
steps that it was a woman. 

The new arrival was kept waiting at the door, as 
Madeline had been, while Margot made her way up from 
the kitchen; Vaughan strode straight across the street, 
bent upon seeing this evening visitor before the street 
door closed behind her. But it was not to be. As his 
foot touched the pavement, the door opened and quickly 
closed again, shutting the visitor inside. 

Baffled thus, an inspiration seized him. In a moment, 
doubtless, Margot would have conducted her visitor to 
some remote apartment. Madeline herself had been 
conducted to a small room in the rear, she told him, and 
Margot had explained that she kept the living-room 
locked by order of her master. He must see this 
woman’s face then before she left the upper hall. In 
three bounds he was at the door and ringing a furious 
peal. 

This time the door was opened very promptly. And 
then as he stepped quickly inside the vestibule he saw 
that only this was open, and Margot stood beside the 
closed inner door alone and barring the way. 

“Good evening, Margot,” he said with the frank 
smile that won him friends so readily; “I hope I did 


444 


MOIN/1 


not startle you. I am a friend of Miss Payne’s and she 
has sent me here. Will you not let me come in a few 
moments? ” 

His smile and Madeline’s name combined were suffi- 
cient to overcome Margot’s wariness; she unlocked the 
door, and he saw standing within, in an attitude of wait- 
ing, the woman who had entered before him. 

While Margot closed and locked the door, the doctor 
advanced, and standing directly under the rays of the 
single light burning overhead, removed his hat with a 
courtly gesture. 

As he did so the strange woman took a sudden step 
forward, halted, looked again and. then exclaimed: 

"Dr. Vaughan! Oh, how thankful I am!" And then 
in answer to his look of inquiry, and with sudden repres- 
sion, "You do not know me. But I have seen you;” 
and, then coming closer and lowering her voice to a 
whisper, "I am Minna, formerly Miss Payne’s maid.” 

"Minna! Then this is a fortunate meeting. Miss 
Payne is very anxious to hear of Miss La Croix.” 

"What, is she not here?” 

"No,” cried Margot, letting the jealousy she had har- 
bored against Minna burst forth, unmoved as she was 
by anxiety and weariness. "She is not here! Is this 
the way you look after my dear mistress? Where is 
she, wretch! ” And she bursts into tears. 

Minna looked at her without a trace of resentment. 

"Poor girl,” she says soothingly, "it has been hard for 
her.” And then she puts a hand upon Margot’s arm. 
"Margot,” she says, "it may all come right. Where is 
Captain Fernand? I must see him.” 

And now the doctor interposes. 

"Minna,” he says, "I fear something serious has hap- 
pened. I know from Miss Payne and from Captain Fer- 
nand just what your position is. Tell us what you mean. 


iVHAT KNEIV 


445 


You left here less than two weeks ago in attendance 
upon Miss La Croix. Have you been separated since?” 

"If you know all that,” Minna said quickly, "you know 
I was bidden be ever watchful of the young lady. And 
so I have been. To-night I was sent out on a shopping 
errand. It was M. Lugas who first instructed me to go, 
but he consulted Miss Moina, and she told me to do so. 
I went, and the commissions were so various that I 
was obliged to be absent about two hours. When I came 
back, all were gone, and I found this note.” She placed 
a scrap of writing in his hand, which ran thus: 

"Mr. La Croix and daughter were so suddenly called 
away that it was out of the question to wait for your 
return. You will remain at your post until you hear 
from them further, which will not be for some days. 
Inclosed find money which will be sufficient for present 
needs. ” 

This missive began without address and ended with- 
out signature. 

"And what do you think of this, Minna?” 

"Simply that they got me out of the way so that they 
may get Miss Moina and her father more fully into their 
power." 

The startling incidents of that eventful night were 
graphically portrayed by Minna, as well as the story of 
their removal to the new quarters, now so suddenly 
deserted. 

"May they not have made their escape from these 
schemers?” 

"No, she was upon her honor. But wait, you wish to 
hear of Captain Makfoski — he was in our rooms this 
morning. Oh, something has gone wrong. Last night 
Crashaw and Lugas were there, shut up with that sick 
old man nearly all night, and they had not been gone an 


446 


MOINA 


hour when he came — Makofski. She was in a terrible 
state of agitation, from some cause when he came; she 
had just returned from her father’s room, and she flew 
to Makofski, looking almost as wild as her father looks 
at times. They talked very hurriedly, and as if the sub- 
ject were something serious. Then he went away in 
great haste, and as he went I heard a fall, and found 
Miss Moina lying on the floor in a dead faint. After that, 
father and daughter both kept their rooms, until this 
evening, and now — well, the house is only a block away.” 


CHAPTER LXVIl 


PREPARING FOR THE FRAY 

It was the morning following the singular interview 
between the princess and Dissett, and M. Lugas and his 
henchman Passauf had just parted after a long, and by 
no means satisfactory consultation. 

“When I trust to my own instincts,” Lugas had said 
half aloud, “I am never betrayed by them.” It would 
never have occurred to this man to utter such a senti- 
ment for the benefit of another; but he said it to himself 
quite as a matter of course. And as he spoke it was of 
Captain Makofski that he was thinking, for the disap- 
pearance of the captain had disturbed him as much as 
it had Madeline or Minna, but for a. different reason. 

If affairs had happened as they ought, he would know 
quite well where to look for Captain Fernand, and he 
could breathe easily at this moment knowing that he 
had no more to fear from that disturbing personage. 
But yesterday morning had come and passed, and 
there had been no stark and beaten dead men found in 
the little B — Street park. 

That the attack had been carefully planned he knew. 
He knew, too, that the victim had gone of his own 
accord to the place which was to have been the scene of 
his execution; that the appointed assassins were ready 
and upon the ground. 

And he also knew now, that the plot had failed. 

The two assistants, who had loitered outside the park 
gate, ready to join in the attack at a given signal, had 

447 


448 


MOINA 


carefully reported this failure, telling how, at the very 
moment of attack they had been seized by “half a dozen 
policemen” and imprisoned only to be turned loose in the 
morning as the victims of “mistaken identity. ” But where 
were Joseph Parker and his “partner?” Where was Cap- 
tain Fernand? A visit to B — Street resulted in noth- 
ing. Clearly Captain Fernand had set out for the park 
at the proper time; clearly, too, he as well as Parker 
and the young mechanic had entered there duly, ac- 
cording to the program. Where were they? 

From the first M. Lugas had recognized in Captain 
Fernand a dangerous force. He had foreseen all the 
difficulties likely to be up by the entrance of this strong 
spirit into the circle which, until his advent, had been 
a machine to be worked at his will, for it was his will 
which dominated all — even Crashaw and Passauf. 

True, these two were registered as next in authority 
to Miles La Croix, but even this erratic visionary was 
overruled by his more plausible subordinates, so they 
in turn found themselves looking to him as to a leader. 
And M. Lugas was this or nothing. That Makofski and 
Joseph Parker, the condemned and his executioner had 
both disappeared at the same time and from the same 
place was cause enough for uneasiness. 

But this was not all. Passauf had just furnished 
him with another cause, not connected, or so he thought, 
with the first. 

“There is something else that troubles me,” said 
Passauf when they had ceased to discuss the disappear- 
ance; ■“I met Dissett, Sharlan^s confidential scribe, this 
morning. He seemed in great haste, and I could not 
get him to say anything except that he meant to see me 
again, and ask about Crashaw and you." 

“After me? I don’t know him.” 

“Well, he knows you. He’s a deep man. Said he 


PREPARING FOR THE FRAY 449 

had just landed in New York. T wish I knew what had 
brought him here." 

"You seem to know him well." 

"I do, or did. I knew him years ago, in Russia.” 

"Were you friends then?" 

"At one time," growled Passauf, "we were fellow-pris- 
oners." And as this had been a long conversation for 
this taciturn man, he brought it to an abrupt close by 
reminding Lugas that he was expected in another quarter 
of the city in half an hour. 

"True," assented Lugas, and then he added: "Tell 
your patient, or rather mine, that he must make haste 
and get into his new quarter. The old woman should 
not be so long left alone.” 

No mention was made of Crashaw, and none was 
necessary. Both knew quite well that the "opportunity” 
which Lugas had predicted for him, not long before, had 
come, and that he was engaged in furthering or seeking 
to further his own interests. 

Left alone again, this man of many resources sat 
down and pondered the situation. And out of his fertile 
brain was soon evolved a course of action. 

"Pll go to the princess," he said. "Pll take the 
aggressive if need be.” And then into his mind came a 
vision of their last meeting, and the terms upon which 
they had parted. 

From the first there had been distrust between these 
two. She, upon learning of his activity in the circle, 
had doubted his motive, and openly expressed her doubt. 
And he, knowing her influence at court, with the "mas- 
ter" and his constituents, had chosen to doubt her loyal- 
ty, and had set afloat those whispers which Drexel had 
so cunningly seized, in order to give his first appearance 
under Miles La Croix’ roof a stranger air of reasonable- 
ness. This had not been done however, until he had as- 
Moina-^2Q 


450 


MOINA 


sured himself, by a most humiliating test that to be one 
of the superior was not in the estimation of the Princess 
Sacha an “open sesame” to her smiles and social favors. 

And yet in spite of all these things, M. Lugas had 
determined to face the princess in her stronghold once 
more. 


When Dr. Vaughan arrived with Minna at the lately 

deserted rooms of the La Croix it was with the faint 

hope that he might find within some clue to their strange 
flitting. But no card, or address, or scrap of paper on 

the laden and littered table in Miles La Croix’ bed- 

room could be converted into a hint upon which to act. 

“They went hastily, that is evident,” he said, “and un- 
expectedly, I am sure. .See, he had begun an article, an 
address I should think, and left even his unfinished page 
and his scattering notes here. Is anything gone from 
the book case or desk, Minna?” 

And then for the first time she noted that half a dozen 
books — she described them as ‘long thin books’ — were 
missing from ; behind the glass door of the little corner 
book-case. 

“Records,” murmured the doctor to himself. And this 
was their only discovery. 

'T shall stay here,” said Minna, in answer to a ques- 
tion, “at least until I hear either from Miss La Croix, 
Miss Payne or Mr. Drexel. I consider myself accountable, 
first of all to him. Some one will be sure to come back 
here; and here I stay.” 

“She is right,” said Madeline when Minna’s decision 
was made known to her. “Only she must have a com- 
panion.” 

“When the doctor had left Minna it was to go back to 
Margot, of whom he begged a night’s shelter. And, 
much to her surprise, he chose the studio, with its two 



AT LAST THE HEAD LAY AGAINST THE POST AND WAS STILL. 

— Moina, p. 462. 


452 


MOIN^ 


front windows overlooking the street. And instead of a 
bed, an easy-chair placed directly before one of the win- 
dows. More than this, he beguiled her into intrusting 
the street door-key to his care. 

“If that boy is watching this place,” he soliloquized, 
“he will show himself soon. He can’t watch here all 
night. Perhaps he has an alternate, and if that is the 
case, I may see them both,” 

His vigil was a monotonous one, but just as he was 
beginning to fight against encroaching drowsiness, a 
shadow stirred out.side, and he pressed his face close 
against the pane. It was a small figure, and it seemed to 
be scanning the house as it slowly passed along the pave- 
ment on the inner side. 

As it moved on he went to the window nearest the 
entrance, that he might catch a last glimpse of its slow 
promenade, and then to his surprise he saw it drop 
down upon the lowest step and lean against the stone 
post which supported the iron hand-rail. 

Minutes passed thus. The figure outside seemed to 
droop more and more, as if overcome with sleep, until 
at last the head lay against the post and was still. 

“He’s asleep!” murmured tHe doctor, “and may be dis- 
covered by some stray policeman at any moment. ” Then 
he was seized with a bright idea. ' Til play policeman, ” 
he said, and in a moment he had slipped off his shoes 
and was out in the vestibule. 

The door creaked a little in spite of him, but it did 
not arouse the seeming sleeper, who only stirred himself 
when the doctor’s hand had closed firmly upon his 
collar. 

“Not a word,” said he sternly, and not a word did 
either of them utter until within the studio and the doc- 
tor had locked the door and struck a light. 

Then for a moment the two surveyed each other with 


PREPARING FOR THE FRAY 


453 


mutual curiosity. At a glance the doctor recognized the 
boy who had carried his note and attached himself to 
Miss Payne’s carriage later. 

But when he demanded a confession, the lad scoffed 
at him. Threats and frankness alike were unavailing. 

"Maybe Pm watching this house and maybe I ain’t," 
he said, "any way you’re a doin’ about the same. Like 
I know what you’re a lookin’ for?” Dr. Vaughan was 
nonplussed; this boy might be in the employ of Drexel’s 
enemies; he had already told the lad that he was in 
search of Captain Makofski, but to give his own name 
might be going too far. Neither coiild he say that he 
scented trouble or foul play; this might be simply to 
put the others on their guard. 

"Listen, my boy,” he said finally. "Tell me how 
much you are paid for watching here.” 

"Ten dollars a day,” replied the boy with a malicious 
grin. 

"Well, I can’t quite believe that,” smiled the doctor. 
"But Pll give you twenty dollars now, in your hand, 
if you will tell me who set you to watch here, and 
what you have found out. I shall know, mind, if it is 
not the truth.” 

"No, yer don’t!” said the boy with a defiant sniff; "I 
ain’t no sell out, you ken bet.” 

"Well,” admitted the doctor, "I like you for that after 
all. But tell me this; why did you follow that car- 
riage?” 

"Look here, mister, you say you’ll tell me something 
first.’ 

"What is it?” 

"Tell me where that carriage was agoin’, and I tell 
you why I followed it.” 

Vaughan pondered for a moment, thought it could do 


454 


MOINA 


no harm, and fell into the trap, “Very good,” he said, 
“I agree. 

“You first then; I’m square." 

“The carriage," said the doctor, “was going straight 
to the Occidental Hotel." 

"Ah! — gosh!” — the boy started and darted a keen dis- 
trustful look at the doctor. Something had worked a 
decided change in his manner and tone. 

“Well?" queried the doctor. 

“Well, I said I would, and here it is: I followed that 
kerridge to see where it was going, of course.” 

In spite of his anxiety and vexation the doctor laughed; 
it was clearly useless to prolong the interview. But before 
he let the boy go he repeated one of his first questions. 

“Boy,” he said, “did you speak the truth when you 
said you were not employed by Captain Makofski?" 

“Yes, I did,” he answered, but with another quick 
glance of distrust, “and I’ll say it again, if you want to 
hear it.” 

Inwardly promising himself not to lose sight of this 
boy if he continued to haunt B — Street, the doctor re- 
turned him to his former place unto the door-step as 
quietly as he had brought him in, and with greater ease. 


Madeline arrived in B — Street at an early hour, and 
found Dr. Vaughan awaiting her. He plunged at once 
into a recital of his night’s adventures. 

“I shall go to Minna at once,” was her prompt com- 
ment upon the history of his interview with Minna, “and I 
think the boy knows something about the Princess Orloff. " 

“Will you go to see her?” 

“If I go, it will be to tell her my story, and ask her 
what she knows of Captain Makofski — I think she knows 
him as Mr. Hurst — and of Moina La Croix. But first 
I must go to Minna.” 


CHAPTER LXVIII 


ONLY A LOOK 

On the evening of her visit to Dissett, Princess Sacha 
received a brief note from him. 

“If you will be alone,” it ran, “send me word; I must 
see you at once, and will follow this if the way is clear.” 

Promptly this word went back: “Come.” 

He came as promptly, and she started back at the 
sight of him. The Dissett she knew was always shabby, 
always stooped, and humble of aspect. The Dissett be- 
fore her was scrupulously dressed, and held himself 
erect; his eyes were bright; his cheeks, so often likened 
to parchment had a tinge of color; his expression was 
alert, keen, animated, his lip was scarcely perceptible. 

“My plans for revenge are working,” he said. “They 
will all be ruined. This circle disbanded, they can no 
longer absorb the revenues of this order, and how else 
does Lugas live? Crashaw will lose still more. Exposed 
and driven out of the league, he will lose an heiress and 
a fortune to boot. Give me one week, and follow with- 
out question the instructions written there, and if after 
that, you are not satisfied — if you ask more you shall 
command all my service. I swear it.” 

“I am satisfied,” she said. 

Just as twilight was falling, she was called to receive 
a visitor who had, so the maid said, declined to send his 
name, but whom she recognized at once, from themaid^s 
description, as M. Lugas. 

“Madam,” he began, “my errand is one of inquiry. I 

455 


45C 


MOmA 


gave you my assurance that only a matter of grave im- 
port would bring me here again. I have thought 
the disappearance of your compatriot, Captain Makofski, 
might come under that category.” 

“Am I to understand that my 'compatriot' is missing, 
then?” 

“Yes.” 

“May I ask why you have seen fit to come to me?” 

“I am not anxious to detain you, madam. It was nec- 
essary to state my fact, or so I thought. My question, 
and I ask it in the name of our order, is this: Madam 
Orloff, what do you know of Captain Makofski, and where 
is he now?” 

She saw in this the man who had doubtless planned the 
horrible entangling net in which Basil Petralowski had 
become enmeshed, and did not reply. And then it came 
upon her that she had overrated her strength, that she 
must end this hateful scene, or throw off the mask and 
overwhelm him with denunciation. By a mighty effort 
she mastered herself, and, turning without a glance at 
him, she struck sharply the tiny bell beside her. 

“Bring me the steel casket from my dressing-room,” 
she said to the maid who answered the ring. When the 
casket was placed in her hands, “Go,” she said to the 
servant, and at once unlocked the casket and threw back 
the lid. “You are about to be freed from a position 
which must, at times, have been quite too onerous,” she 
began, every word seeming to cut the air, low as they 
were spoken. “Lest your zeal for Captain Fernand 
carry you too far, I make known to you now, what should 
have been and must yet be, brought forward later, and 
in the presence of the assembled supreme circle.” 

She dropped her hand into the casket as she spoke and 
drew forth what seemed to be a small globe with the 
map of the world outspread upon its surface in tiny 


ONLY A LOOK 


457 


lines and figures the foundation of this globe, or that 
part representing water was inky black, while the earth 
was marked out in pale hues, and here and there on the 
surface of both hemispheres were tiny vivid dots of 
blood-red. 

At the sight of this M. Lugas, the imperturbable, 
started, and his swarthy color changed 

"Do you recognize this?” she asked icily. 

He bowed his head. 

She shut her hand upon it, and when it opened the 
globe also had fallen in halves, and from the hollow cen- 
ter she took a tightly rolled paper. 

It was of a peculiar color and closely covered with 
writing like copper-plate, while at the top, were inscribed 
certain strange symbols and at the bottom it was stamped 
with a singular seal. Without leaving her chair she 
handed it to him. "Read it,” she said imperiously. 

He came forward and took it in silence from her hand. 
M. Lugas knew when speech was futile. Standing thus 
he read the document which gave to the Princess Orloff 
supreme authority over that pgrtion of the Upper Circle 
and Council which was authorized and supported by the 
powers abroad, bidding them surrender to her all books, 
letters and other documents, and to cease all action on 
behalf of the order, except as she should direct. 

There was no disputing such authority. The strange 
symbolical globe, the cipher seal he knew only too well. 
He bowed and returned the paper to her hand. 

"Ma5^ I ask the reasons for this step, the charges, if any? ” 

"I am unable to go into details. But it is charged 
that your policy has not been what it was meant to be. 
That your cause has been one of unjustified aggressive- 
ness. That deeds that have served personal ends and 
have ministered to personal greed, hatred and malice, 
have been done under the name of the council.” 


458 


MOIN/i 


He put up his hand as if in deprecation. "Permit me 
to remind madam that I am not the chairman of the 
council. I can scarcely be arraigned for any deed done 
by the order, under the signature of the chairman." 

"True." A strange smile flitted across her face. "Rest 
easy, the blame shall fall where it belongs." She checked 
herself suddenly. "You may inform your chairman, M. 
La Croix, that an inquiry will be made. As for Captain 
Fernand Makofski — " 

"My anxiety concerning him is removed, madam,” he 
said; "I begin to comprehend many things. As for my- 
self — " 

"As for you," she said slowly and with a gesture of 
dismissal, "you shall receive justice, ample justice. Do 
not doubt it.” 

When he had gone, she took out Dissett’s written in- 
structions and glanced at them hastily. 

"T did not blunder," she muttered, "I only abridged. 
How can I face those men and not charge them with 
their crime!" 

That evening Madeline called upon the Princess Sacha. 

"My dear lady,” she began, "I have come to *you in 
great trouble. I hope to find a little help — a ray of 
light here." 

And this is how it came about that an hour later, as 
Madeline was preparing to go back to Minna and her other 
cares the princess drew her into her own chamber and 
closed and locked the door. Her haughty head was bowed, 
her eyes were tear-worn, her manner was strangely sad 
and deprecating. 

"Madeline Payne," she said, "you have been our good 
angel here, my good angel and I — oh, I was so alone! 
But for you I would be all alone. And yet you do not 
know me. You do not guess." Suddenly she summons 
all her resolution. "You have a right to hear the truth." 


ONir A LOOK 


459 


And sitting there with her hands held tightly between 
two burning ji^alms, Madeline Payne listened to the 
strange, sad story of Sacha Orloff’s love and loss, with 
nothing extenuated, nothing held back — listened and wept 
with her and for her, and gave her hand and her prayers 
and her pity when all was done. And so, when Made- 
line had gone, the Princess Sacha softened, unnerved, 
with all thoughts and schemes for revenge drowned by 
her tears, hushed by her sorrows and forgotten in her 
thankfulness — indited a hasty summons to Dissett. 

He came promptly as before, and saw, with something 
like misgiving, the change in her face. 

“La Croix and his daughter must not be left at the 
mercy of their enemies,” he broke in sharply. “They 
are in hourly danger." 

Then came the story of Madam Petralowski’ s sickness, 
and then his face blanched, and he set his teeth between 
the drawn lips. 

“I can not see those murderers again,” she cried; “it 
would kill me. Dissett, release me. Spare me this or- 
deal. I will give you the papers, the authority, every- 
thing, only — ” 

“What do you mean?” he almost hissed. 

“Oh, don’t you understand me? I want you to take 
my place — to — ” 

A strange, fierce light leaped into his face. “Do you 
mean,” he whispered hoarsely, “that you wish me to 
act? To assume your authority?” 

“Yes.” 

“All? In everything? You will leave the manner, the 
time, everything to me?” 

“That is it; yes, yes.” 

“Not questioning? Asking only that the La Croix be 
spared and they be driven from the city before further 
mischief is done?” 


460 


MOINy4 


"Yes." 

"And you renounce for yourself, any other, any further 
vengeance? When the demands of this detective are 
satisfied, you will rest content also?" 

"Yes." ' 

In the depth of her own distress she failed to see the 
triumphant flash in his small eyes which came and was 
instantly concealed. "Then I must do as you wish," he 
said. "It is not what 1 had planned, for I wanted to see 
you crush them. But it shall be done and done well. 
Onl}^ grant me one thing, and you need never give this 
business another thought.” 

"What is it you want?" 

"To see her.” 

"Now? It would not be safe." 

"I will not speak to her. I do not wish chat. Only 
one look." 

"When you come for the papers,” she said, "you shall 
see her if it is possible.” 

"It is only a look that I ask," said this strange man, 
turning away. "And — I shall want the papers to-morrow. " 


CHAPTER LXIX 


MADELINE'S CHASE 

While these things were happening in New York, Roger 
Drexel was speeding westward upon the fast express, 
filled with anxiety because of the new and awful danger 
into which he knew Hosmer and Savareis were unwit- 
tingly plunging. At the most, he thought, they could 
only be ten hours ahead of him, but ten hours in Chi- 
cago, expected perhaps and ladened with a quantity of 
infernal machines. "Great heavens! what disaster might 
not overtake them in ten hours." And he was totally 
uninformed. When were those meetings to be? And 
how was he to conduct his search that it might be both 
quiet and quick? 

Another thing that had caused him much perplexity 
was his neglected letter to Madeline. At first he had 
thought to telegraph from the nearest station, but he 
knew that the message would be more than twenty-four 
hours late, and that Madeline in all likelihood had 
already put Dr. Vaughan in possession of his cryptogram 
letter. "Where will they begin their search," he said to 
himself. And then came the thought of Moina and 
Minna. They would seek Minna and must go of course 
to the house in B — street, and he drew a great breath 
of relief. 

He could trust Madeline, once on the track, to find 
Moina’ s new abode, aided by Minna and tlie boy "shadow" 
he had left in B — street, and so he felt sure Moina would 
find a friend. 

461 


MOIN/t 


And then he quickly decided that things were best as 
they were. The time for the denouement had arrived; 
all must come out once he was back in New York. He 
would not telegraph, at least not until he had reached 
Chicago. 

In the gray of the morning, Drexel aroused himself 
from a long sleep. It was almost day and Chicago would 
be reached in six hours. And then he became consciour 
of a stir and growing tumult about him; bells and whis- 
tles began their noisy din and died away in a forlorn 
wail. And then came a crash — the sound of splintering 
limbers — and he was thrown back with unpleasant force 
)y the sudden stopping of the sleeping car. 

Carelessness on the part of some one, a morning fog 
and a sharp curve and a “wild" freight train had com- 
bined to stop the express after it had dashed frantically 
into the rear of the aforesaid freight train, to create a 
wreck and to delay Roger Drexel until perhaps — as he 
turned cold at the thought — he might be too late. 


Madeline had decided upon her course before seeking 
the princess, and she found nothing in the strange sad 
story of the latter to cause a change in her plans. 

She had put Minna in her present position and she 
now determined to bear her company. She believed with 
Minna, that sooner or later some one would come to them, 
who willingly or unwillingly, would lead .them to Moina. 
She easily arranged all things at her hotel, and leaving 
in charge and at the disposal of the afflicted princess, 
the maid who had superseded Minna, she went out from 
that place to assume again a role she had played success- 
lully years before, in the days of her own life’s tragedy. 

It was to B — Street that she went first. She entered 
the house as Madeline Payne, a lady of fashion in dainty 
array. At the end of an hour, during which time she had 


MADELINE'S CHASE 


463 


been closeted with Margot, she emerged, but it was not 
as a fine lady — not Madeline Payne. The young woman 
who came forth and drove with utmost haste to the 
abandoned suite of rooms in the little court where Min- 
na waited alone, was a trim, tidily dressed servant-girl, 
with thick black locks lying low on her forehead, a mot- 
tled complexion and pale-tinted eyeglasses partially con- 
cealing a pair of inflamed looking pink-lidded eyes. 
"You need never be afraid, miss,” said Margot at the 
door; "nobody will ever know you — not even Miss Moina 
if you were to see her, and that bit of cotton just makes 
you look another shape altogther. ” 

Minna was expecting her mistress and was prepared 
for her disguise, but when Dr. Vaughan arrived not far 
behind Madeline herself, and surveyed her in her new 
character, his anxiety and his opposition were aroused 
afresh; at last he won from her two concessions. First, 
that he might place a guard outside in the little court — a 
man who was simply to be in readiness in case of need, 
but was to take no step except at the word from Made- 
line and this man was to be one of his own choosing. 
Second, recalling the fact that Drexel had told her of a 
certain man or men whom he commanded at need, and 
who belonged to the city force, she agreed with the doctor 
that it would be best to apply to the chief of police as 
to a friend to Drexel, and not in his official capacity, for 
the names of these men. And this accomplished, Vaughan 
set out at once for the office of the chief whom he knew 
very well; and to her all was plain sailing, the instant the 
chief knew Dr. Vaughan as the friend of "Hurst” and 
acting with authority from him. 

"Yes," said the chief, "I know the man you want and 
think he is within call.” 

And in another ten minutes the doctor was face to face 
with Little Norton. 


464 


MOINA 


They were two straightforward men, and they soon un- 
derstood each other. 

“Doctor, I know all about it,’' said little Norton in 
his characteristic way. “Hurst said to me, ‘Norton, if 
things get wrong at any time, and if my friend, Dr. 
Vaughan comes to you for information, remember that 
he acts for me, and be perfectly frank with him. He 
may need your help.’ Now do you?" 

But Norton’s knowledge of Drexel, like his own, ended 
after the attack in the little park some three days since. 

As the result of this interview it was Little Norton 
himself who took up his station in the little court after 
having seen Madeline and arrived at a mutual under- 
standing with her. 

But before he began his watch there, Vaughan took him 
to B — Street to settle, if possible, a question of identity 
—the identity of the boy “shadow." Some time passed 
before they were favored with a sight of the lad, but at 
last he came into view, and then little Norton broke 
into a low laugh. 

“So that’s the boy you^ve collared and dragged in 
here?" he asked, for they were in the B — Street studio 
by Margot’s kind permission; “if he’s watching this 
house, it’s for Hurst; he’s a lad of Hurst’s own train- 
ing.” 

And before he went away he had estasblished a better 
understanding between Vaughan and the boy, one which 
left Vaughan free to attend to his patients at the Occi- 
dental, assured that nothing would go amiss in B — 
Street. 

The next morning found Madeline refreshed by a long 
night’s repose, and ready in her servant’s gown, for what- 
ever might happen. The better to understand what is 
to follow, let us go half a dozen blocks to the westward 
of this little court, and pause at the corner where a big 


MADELINE'S CHASE 


465 


lager-beer sign arches the pavement. It is a corner 
saloon with convenient doors on two streets, and through 
one of these doors — that one opening upon the busiest 
thoroughfare — at the very hour when Madeline and Minna 
are breakfasting, there enters a trim little man, who 
glances quickly about him and then seats himself at a 
table, aloof from the others, and within sight of the 
lesser door of entrance. For ten minutes he watches 
this door intently, and at the end of that time is re- 
warded by seeing it swing inward. He does not stir 
while the person who enters walks the length of the sa- 
loon and he is silent when the new-comer drops into a 
chair opposite him. 

“Well, Passauf, “ said this last arrival in a surly tone, 
“I am deuced glad you are here! What did that mes- 
sage of yours mean? To get a man out at such an hour 
as this!" 

“We have not exactly the time for taking our ease,” 
replied Passauf. “I have seen Dissett again. And I am 
to sec him once more, in two hours. I don’t pretend to 
understand it, but he is willing to meet you, and hear 
what you have got to say before the regular hearing. 
That is, he’ll see you alone, with the understanding that 
you, yourself, bring in Lugas afterward." 

“Did he appoint a place?" 

“Yes. Your own rooms. He is to be there at eight, 
precisely. You are to tell Lugas to join you at ten; not 
before. " 

“Humph! No one ever knew Lugas to be either ahead 
or behind a fixed time. That man is a machine! And 
what are you to do?" 

“I have the honor of bringing Dissett to your door. 
One thing we ought to have; the old man’s book. Did 
you get it?" 

“Hush. That’s the mischief and all. Do you know 
Moina — 


46G 


MOIhJA 


there has been a blunder? That book was not brought 
away with the others.” 

“Then it must have been left in the other house. It 
must be got.” 

“Gad! man, .you don^t intend to let Dissett see that, 

I hope?” 

“No; but nobody else must see it. Don’t you under- 
stand me? Does Lugas know that book was left behind?” 

“No; not yet.” 

Jules Passauf half arose. “We must go and get that 
book before he does. If it comes to close quarters, you 
understand who M. Lugas will lookout for. Come, there 
won’t be any trouble. I’ll get the book if you want. 
There’s no risk, yet.” 

“I dare say you are right,” agreed Rufus Crashaw. 

The rooms lately occupied by the La Croix were on 
the third floor facing the front, and it was easy enough 
for Passauf to inquire of the care-taker on the first 
floor, and so assure himself that Minna was alone, “ex- 
ceptin’ of another girl that has come to keep her com- 
pany like. ” 

Minna admitted him promptly and would have been 
voluble in her welcome, but he cut her short and made 
his way toward the rear rooms, scarcely deigning to 
glance at the “girl” who was at the moment “keeping 
Minna company,” in the little reception room. He had 
come for some articles for M. La Croix, he said, as he 
brushed past Minna, and he could find them without 
troubling her. And then he closed the bed-room door in 
her face, shutting himself in. Almost simultaneously the 
occupant of the reception-room sprang to her feet, and, 
with a few quick motions, divested herself of the skirt 
and blouse of dark blue print, which she had worn above 
a seersucker gown, such as are worn by trained nurses, 
and, catching up from a convenient and obscure corner 


MADELINE'S CHASE 


467 


where they lay in readiness, a hat, shawl and small cov- 
ered basket, she slipped noiselessly out without exchang- 
ing a word with Minna, who stood guard at the dining- 
room door. 

It was a long quarter of an hour before Passauf 
emerged, and then he came empty-handed and hastened 
away without noticing a youth with a shabby bundle un- 
der his arm whom he passed just at the door, nor the trim 
maid in seersucker who came out from the court just 
behind him. 

He walked on briskly for two blocks and then turning 
a corner, halted and accosted a man who stood looking 
up the street as if waiting for a down-town car. Madeline 
paused to look in at a shop window and the youth with 
the bundle passed her slowly. 

“Follow the small man,” she said without turning her 
head. 

With a word and nod Crashaw turned and walked 
down a side street and Madeline keeping as near him as 
was safe followed unhesitatingly. “It is Rufus Crashaw,” 
she said to herself, “who is most likely to lead me to 
Moina La Croix.” 

Rufus Crashaw plodded on steadily and without haste. 
His head was bent, as if he was pondering, and from 
time to time he gave an impatient swish with the small 
and limber cane which he carried. In his self-commun- 
ings he has quite forgotten to be cautious, or perhaps he 
feels safe in this out-of-the-way quarter. Two, or three 
times he turned a corner, each turn taking him into a 
worse neighborhood. 

For more than an hour Crashaw walked on; finally at 
the opening of a short street which was narrow and 
crowded with tumble-down tenements, he paused abruptly 
and looked about him. It was a very hasty glance and 


468 


MOINA 


Madeline who was walking behind two portly German 
women, was quite concealed from his view. 

Crashaw has gone half the length of the street and he 
stops and again looks about him. This time she is in 
full view and scarely half a block away. There is no 
alternative, and she does not falter an instant but bears 
straight toward him, her basket held conspicuously be- 
fore her. 

He does not wait for her to pass. Instead he goes 
out of sight down an alley. 

Has he turned aside to see her go by? she wonders, 
and walks on without changing her pace. 

She is at the alley now and what she sees causes her 
heart to jump. The houses on either side are quite new, 
and straight across the alley, blocking it up, half-hidden 
amidst tall fences and rickety out-buildings, stands an 
old weather-beaten cottage that had evidently been 
moved back to make room for one of the new buildings, 
and Rufus Crashaw is just vanishing from sight behind 
the fence that half conceals the cottage door. Instinct- 
ively she stops an instant, and that instant sees the top 
of the partly concealed door open and close again quickly. 


CHAPTER LXX 


MADELINE AT BAY 

Quick as thought Madeline sprang across the alley and 
entered the cottage before which she stood. In the 
front room two men were at work upon the ceiling. 

Madeline saw that the house was for rent and asked 
permission to look at the rooms. The workman was more 
than willing to talk, and she soon drew from him the 
fact that the unfinished cottage and its mate across 
the alley were owned by the same person, and that the 
unfinished cottage, although still labeled ‘to rent,’ was 
in reality taken. 

“It was rented a week ago,” the man said glibly, “and 
why the folks don’t move in, is more than I know." 

A week ago! Madeline’s thoughts flew fast. With 
both these concealing cottages unoccupied, what an iso- 
lated place that rear cottage was. 

“I hain’t even s«en nobody but an old woman in the 
other house there,” said the man. 

Madeline thanked the man and took the name of the 
owner, and his address. 

At a drug store she purchased a flask of brandy, and 
some carefully weighed-out powders of morphia; and at 
a gunsmith’s she bought a revolver with six chambers, 
which she loaded with her own hand. Then she went 
straight back to the street of the hidden cottage. 

Madeline Payne had taken a bold resolve; and it led 
her straight to the cottage door. She was determined to 
find Moina if possible. 


469 


470 


MOlN/1 


She knocked at the door. There was a moment of 
waiting, then she heard a key turning in the lock, and 
the door opened a little way. She was close against it 
as it moved inward, and assuming a frightened expression 
she flung her whole weight against the door, and in 
spite of some resistance, was inside and standing in the 
middle of a bare and dismal room, before the woman who 
had opened the door had removed her hand from the 
latch. 

And then while the woman glared, unable to stem the 
tide of her speech, Madeline with staring eyes and lively 
gesture, began to talk in French. Volubly at first, then 
pausing as the woman made an impatient gesture, and 
then as if recovering her self-possession, after a severe 
fright, began again in English. 

"I am sure I beg your pardon," she said. ‘T always 
speak my native language when I am excited, and really 
those men out there! They must have been drunk, I 
think!” 

The old woman strode toward the other door with 
hand outstretched. In another instant that was tightly 
shut but not until Madeline had seen Moina La Croix, 
Moina beyond a doubt, but what a face! So pallid, so 
woful, with such a strange wild look in the hollow eyes. 

"Who are you?" asked the old woman. 

"The nurse of course.” 

"You are not wanted here. Who sent you?” 

Madeline took on a tone of offended dignity. 

"The head surgeon. I suppose you can see that I am 
a trained nurse.” 

"You may be a trained nurse," said the old woman, 
"but you are not wanted here. You^ve made a mistake, 
and you^d best go.” There was a threatening note in 
her tone. 

"My good woman,” she said with a touch of patronage 


MADELINE AT BAY 


471 


in her tone, "I dare say you mean well, and have good 
reasons for being over-cautious. I am here to take care 
of an old man who is sick and nervous, and I don’t think 
I’ve made a wistake in the place. The person who sent 
me is a tall dark man with an arched nose and dark eyes 
set very deep in his head. He wears a tuft on his chin 
and a long, pointed, black mustache; he looks — ” with a 
sudden start, and a keen glance at the old face — "he 
looks like you." 

Madeline had described M. Lugas. 

"Who are you?" cried the old woman. "And what 
do you know of my — of him? Do you think he will trust 
you sooner than his own — sooner than me? Why did he 
send you here?" 

"He said because the case was urgent and there was 
no one else, and because I was a nurse, I am to stay 
here; you are to leave. I don’t care about staying here 
— and I don’t feel like having any more of your inso- 
lence. I’ll go back and tell my gentleman that you won’t 
hear me." 

"No," said the old woman sullenly. "I don’t under- 
stand it. There has been different plans laid down only 
to-day, but come on.” 

In another moment, Madeline was in the presence of 
Miles and Moina La Croix. 

"Here are the patients,” said the old woman; "Now 
you can begin to cure them." She busied herself about 
the table. "If you can get that girl to eat, you’ll do 
more than I can." 

Madeline had provided herself with sundry vials of 
simple homeopathic remedies, and she administered 
some of them to the old man, who took them obediently 
and then went on with his rambling, meaningless talk. 

Her heart was aching for the poor girl upon the 
couch, and she was trying to devise some expression, 


473 


MOINA 


some form of words, by which to address Moina and so 
arouse her attention, when a boisterous knocking at the 
door caused the old waman to start. 

Madeline’s heart beat fast. She knew, whoever it 
might be, it was not likely to be M. Lugas, and it might 
be that she would find herself entrapped and among ene- 
mies. With a swift movement she crossed the room and 
seated herself beside Moina, at the same time slipping a 
hand into the pocket where the loaded pistol lay. She 
heard the door open, a sharp exclamation from the old 
woman, the shutting of the door, and then the exchange 
of hoarse half-whispers. Madeline put out her hand and 
clasping one of Moina’ s, she whispered close to her ear. 

“Moina, be calm. Don’t start nor scream. I am a 
a friend — a friend of Captain Fernand’s.” 

The girl shuddered. “He is dead,” she faintly 
moaned. 

Madeline began to understand. “Be brave," she whis- 
pered again. “Do not believe it. We have no proof 
that he is dead.” “I am Madeline Payne. Courage; I 
do not believe he is dead. Hush! Close your eyes, 
they are coming.” 

Her hand went back to her pocket. Moina’ s eyelids 
fluttered and closed. In the little bedroom Miles La 
Croix muttered on. And from the outer room entered, 
following close behind the tall old woman, a small man 
with a repulsive face, ragged, unkempt, and carrying his 
arm in a sling. It was the Spider. “So,” he said, 
pausing before Madeline and leering hideously — “so, 
this is the young lady that has got into our den under 
false pretenses, eh? Sent by Lugas, was she? You and 
I can’t both be messengers of Lugas.’ Shall we try 
conclusions? This is a bad place for a spy; a very bad 
place. ” 

He thrust his grimy left hand into his breast, and the 


MADELINE AT BAY 


473 


woman began to move toward the two girls from the other 
side. 

The couch stood in a corner, and by turning in her 
chair Madeline could command two sides of the room. 

She did not rise, but as the man uttered his last 
word, the glittering little six-shooter suddenly confront- 
ed them. 

"Stand back, both of you!” she cried. 'T can help 
call by firing a shot. I don’t think you care to have 
the police here!” 

A sound behind her caused Madeline to start and turn. 
Too late! something black and stifling came down over 
face and shoulders, she was forced backwards and down 
upon the floor, and something cruelly hard and heavy 
was forced against her mouth. She struggled fiercely, 
bravely, but she felt the stifling sensation and the gag 
supplemented by a hand upon her throat and a knee 
upon her breast; then all become black around her; she 
knew no more. 


CHAPTER LXXI 


THE DAGGER AT LAST 

It is evening and Rufus Crashaw sits alone in his 
room, waiting the coming of Dissett. 

All has not gone as he had planned when he left the 
English shores for America less than a year ago. He 
no longer pins his faith to the council, he knows now 
that the power is about to fall from the hands of the 
three who have wielded it so ruthlessly. 

“Miles La Croix’ guilt will be proven by the fact that 
he fled and is not to be found even by his fellow council- 
men. And Lugas — well, it will be a case of his word 
against theirs, two against one. The hour is come and 
with it comes Dissett, conducted by Jules Passauf who, 
understanding his role, leaves him at the door. 

The man who enters is very grave. 

“M. Rufus Crashaw,” he begins, “I hope you know 
perfectly why I am here, and how absolute is the power 
put into my hands, first, by the master across the sea, 
and last by the lady who represents him here." 

Dissett takes some papers from his pocket and refers 
to one of them. His face has not relaxed. 

“Let me tell you of what you are accused with the 
others. First, of placing Miles La Croix nominally at 
the head of affairs and then so working upon his 
mental and physical infirmities as to cause him to do 
your wills at a time when he was really not responsible 
for his acts. Second, for misappropriating funds col- 
lected for specific uses, and for causing other funds to 

474 


THE DAGGER AT LAST 


475 


be ^raised for fictitious purposes. Third, that instead 
of trying peaceful measures, the aggressive policy has 
been pressed to the utmost, and lives taken. And all 
because this was the policy which brought in largest 
revenue and rendered the chance of inquiry into matters- 
financial improbable. It is said that even now there is 
a list of ‘condemned,’ passed upon and to be dispatched 
in the near future. That these plots and schemes ex- 
tend beyond this city. That a great outbreak has been 
planned, a dynamite plot, menacing lives and property. 
And that when this begins, and while the attention of 
those who might otherwise interfere is directed else- 
where, two or three men having obtained control of the 
funds, intend to seize them, enrich themselves and leave 
their dupes to suffer.’’ 

The sweat is standing out on Crashaw’s forhead. He 
has not anticipated this and it is all true. 

“You are disquieted," continued Dissett. “You are 
thinking of this expose. Be at ease; I do not intend 
to make 3"ou suffer for the misdeeds of the council. There 
are greater sins than these.” 

“Shall we smoke?” he asked abruptly. 

Crashaw assented, and Dissett produced a large cigar- 
case, filled with small, fragrant, pale cigars. He gazed at 
them for a moment and a cold glitter came into his eyes 
as he held the case toward Crashaw. 

“I want to tell you a story,” said Dissett. “I had a 
brother in the mines of Russia. He was to have been 
released soon, but he was burning to send a letter to his 
sweetheart, who had been faithful through years and 
trouble. And he so wrote a letter and intrusted it to a 
man, an Englishman like yourself —a tourist, who pitied 
him and won his confidence, who took charge of his 
letter and gave it — ah! he gave it to a tender sweetheart! 
He was a government tool, this man — ” 


476 


MOIN/f 


Crashaw started and the cigar almost dropped from 
his hand. He could feel the eyes of his companion 
burning into his face, and to conceal it as much as he 
might, he replaced the little cigar and began to puff 
vigorously, sending up the white smoke again in pleas- 
ing circles. 

"He gave that boy’s letter," went on Dissett in a 
metallic voice, "to the post commandant — he could 
not wait for his reward of paltry roubles. And poor 
Serge! Do you know how they punish convicts in the 
Kara mines? Ah! my brother’s blood is upon the head 
of that English spy!” 

He put his cigar from between his fingers. It had not 
been even lighted, and again he eyes his vis-a-vis 
keenly. This time Crashaw did not look up. He 
smoked steadily; his cigar was more than half gone. 

"When Serge died," said Dissett, "I took a solemn 
oath to hunt the world over to find that man and to be 
revenged! ” 

Crashaw’s cigar grew suddenly dim. His face was 
deadly pale. 

"Rufus Crashaw," cried Dissett, "why should I con- 
cern myself with your later treacheries when long before 
I knew you a traitor to your cause, I held you already 
condemned? " 

His hand went swiftly to his breast, and with eyes 
that seemed to dart flame, and cheeks wherein the blood 
seemed to be congealed in great purple spots, with 
yellow teeth showing through the drawn lips, like the 
fangs of some ravenous beast of prey, he stood gazing 
down upon his face. Suddenly the hand flashed out and 
downward, and in the center of the table, upright and 
quivering in the wood, stood a long, slender dagger. It 
was directly before Crashaw, and much nearer to him 
than to the man who had thrust it there. But Crashaw 


THE DAGGER AT LAST 


477 


never stirred. Never in his life had he been more clear 
headed, more keenly alive to all about him, more men- 
tally alert than at that moment. All that he had done, 
and left undone, all his crimes, all his risks, his hopes 
and fears, seemed to pass before him in lightning-like 
panorama. The full meaning of the dagger, vibrating 
before his fascinated gaze was clear to him. 

He knew that they were alone, these two, and that 
Dissett was the elder and smaller. All this he knew, 
but he never stirred nor spoke. 

"How many murders have you to answer for?” went 
on the terrible voice. "There is Serge and Basil — it is 
for them you are punished now. In some other world 
you may perhaps answer for the rest. For that old man 
who died because he looked too much like Lord, the 
banker; for the poor servant who was killed in the 
banker’s bed. Yes, I know it was Basil who struck the 
first, but it was you, and Lugas and Passauf, who planned 
the deed, and forced him to its execution. It was 
Tausig, 'The Spider,’ who killed the footman, but it 
was 3^ou three again who planned it. And how many 
times did you attempt the life of the man you call 
‘Fernand Makofski’? Once when ‘The Spider’s arm 
dropped, broken by a blow from the captain’s loaded 
cane. Once when you had penned him six to one, in a 
deserted house, as you thought, and when a frail girl 
thwarted you. And again when you set your tools upon 
him in the little park. Shall I tell you why your emis- 
saries failed? Because one of them was a clever 
amateur detective, interested in hunting you down. 
Why did you and Lugas distrust Makofski? Ah, you 
feared him because you thought him too loyal to the 
cause to which you were unfaithful. What would you 
have done could you have known that he too, was a 
skilled detective, hunting you down. And that Captain 


478 


MOIN/i 


Makofski has been in an honored grave for years. Will 
it please you, perchance, to learn that madam la 
princess, who knew all this, permitted it because — this 
same detective was hunting you! Yes! Rufus Crashaw, 
the man who traced you ^tep by step as the murderer of 
Basil Petralowski is the man whom you knew as ‘Captain 
Fernand.^ You have woven a net to entrap poor Moina 
La Croix, and you have plotted against Rene Savareis, 
because you believed him her lover. Fool and blind! 
Her lover, and the man she loves is 'Captain Fernand!’” 

Something like an electric shock passes over the frame 
of Crashaw. He uttered a sound that was almost a howl. 
For the first time he essayed to rise and his hand went 
out toward the dagger still upright in the wood. But 
it was a fruitless effort. At the first movement a trem- 
bling hand seized him, and strange darting pains shot 
'through his body. His hand fell nerveless, even the 
fingers refusing to do his will. Strange lights flashed 
before his eyes. There was the sound of a cataract in 
his ears. Yet, through it all his mind worked strong 
and clear. At last he found his speech. 

“Fiend!” he cried, “what have you ^one to me?” 

“I have avenged Serge and Basil! I have kept my 
oath! I have finished my life’s work! My cigars are 
powerful, Rufus Crashaw. They come, as I told you, 
from Russia, and they have been steeped in the juice of 
a death-dealing herb that grows about Kara, nourished, 
no doubt, by the blood and bones of prisoner’s betrayed! ” 

The wretch in the chair writhed and lifted up his 
impotent hands. The strange drug was doing its work; 
he was powerless to do more than move slightly now; 
and fierce, rending pains were shooting through his body. 

The clock stands opposite. He can count out the 
minutes left to him — very few now. Once, he makes, or 
thinks he is making a frightful effort to call out, or 


THE DAGGER AT LAST 


479 


Stir. Then he realizes how useless it is. Still the 
visions throng' before him. The face of Moina La 
Croix, as she looked when he told her that Makofski was 
dead, rises white and awful, and he tries to avoid its 
gaze. He 'drops his eyes and sees, there, just before 
him, two cigars; two of the Russian cigars steeped in 
the weed of Kara. Then an awful sensation comes over 
him, a crashing and rending. There is a convulsive 
movement; he falls forward and his head rests on the 
table, close beside the fragrant cigars, the weeds of 
death. 


Dissett goes swiftly out from the great building, and 
is at once joined by Jules Passauf. 

“You are to go to M. Lugas^ apartments at once,’’ he 
says. “You are to enter and leave upon his table this.” 
He draws Passauf toward a ray of shining lights and 
flashes a long slender dagger before his eyes. Its effects 
are magical. Passauf is reduced to abject, terrified com- 
pliance. “When you have done this, you are to take a 
message to madam, the Princess Orloff. But first tell 
me where is Miles La Croix and his daughter?” 

Passauf tells him reluctantly. 

“And now come, I have a carriage near, for I donH 
trust you over much, Passauf. Great is your present 
danger; you might think you could escape me. I am 
going to see that you deposit the knife, and deliver the 
message. Then you are free to go. But remember, you 
must not be in this city when the sun sets to-morrow. 
Come!” 

Expecting to meet Dissett, the man who was now his 
authorized superior, and wondering not a little what 
might be the outcome of their meeting, Lugas approached 
the door of Crashaw^s apartment and tapped lightly. 
He found Crashaw dead. He looks about him. Then 


480 


MOIhlA 


he takes up one of the small cigars, looks at it, smells 
it. M. Lugas is a connoisseur in cigars. A moment 
he inhales the strong perfume, and then takes up the sec- 
ond cigar and thrusts both into his pocket. Now he turns 
again to the dead man, and coolly begins to search his 
pockets, inspecting everything and returning his watch, 
money, sundry letters and papers, all in fact save two or 
three thin, folded papers and a bunch of keys. 

Then he leaves the place. His rooms are not far from 
those occupied by Crashaw, and he is already half way 
there. With the smile of triumphant cunning still upon 
his face, he pauses at a corner and takes out one of the 
little cigars. Puffing vigorously, he strides on through 
the cool night air and is soon fitting the key in his own 
door. He enters the room with quick step and turns up 
the burner over the reading-table. 

Never before, not even when he stood beside the corpse 
of his confederate, when he caught that haunting death 
look, was he as pale as he is now. And yet there is no 
corpse here, no sign of human presence except — there 
directly underneath the lamp, quivering in its gleam, is 
the dagger in the wood! Up to that moment he has 
not ceased to smoke, but now he removes the weed from 
his mouth — it is almost consumed already — and slowly 
seats himself with his eyes fixed upon the gleaming 
knife. There he sits thinking, thinking. How has this 
deadly messenger come? No one save Passauf has ac- 
cess here, and it cannot have come through Passauf. 
Upon Crashaw, whose normal mental processes were 
slow, the fatal drug had acted as a mind stimulant. 
Strange as it surely was, upon this man of alert mental 
habit, its action was not the same. His thoughts come 
slowly, laboriously, and seemed to repeat themselves 
over and over. But he was not yet beaten, or so he tried 
to assure himself. He would make one more effort and 


THE DAGGER AT LAST 


481 


he would go, as he had meant; yes, just the same only 
he would go doubly armed and in a carriage all the way. 
He must secure the signature of Miles La Croix. And 
then came the attempt to rise, the strange sensation in 
his head and limbs, the rending pains. 

But M. Lugas is a physician trained, and he knows 
when he has repeated the effort to rise and failed again, 
that he has been poisoned. Poisoned, yes, but how? 
He lifts his hand with the cigar stump still between his 
fast numbing fingers, glances at the dagger before him, 
remembers the scene in Crashaw’s room. He sees again 
the two cigars as they lie on the table, and he knows 
that Crashaw has not died of apoplexy. 

Dissett, Dissett the emissary, is the executioner. 

Once again he attempts to rise, and fails. Then with 
the look of a baffled fiend, a look of frenzy and of fear, 
he lifts his hand. It obeys him still, he puts it behind 
him and draws out a pocket revolver. At least he will 
not die by inches, he thinks, and raises his hand. Then 
over that dark face, now corpse-like and awful to see, 
comes a look of horror unutterable, and hideous impre- 
cations fall from the stiffening lips, as the fingers refuse 
to press the trigger, and the weapon falls from his grasp. 

What this man was and is, is written on his face in 
this awful last hour, and the end comes slowly. Death 
is merciless; draw the curtain; leave them alone to- 
gether. 

Moina — 


CHAPTER LXXII 


THE HAYMARKET 

Evening in Chicago. 

The fair city is aglow with light, palpitating with life. 

Everywhere there is the unusual stir of the early 
evening when the pleasure-goers are all abroad. And 
in one part of the city there is more than the usual stir. 
At Randolph Street and the thoroughfares adjoining, as 
we near the bridge and pass over it, men are hurrying 
along singly and in groups, and all, or so it would seem, 
going in one direction, westward. 

Crossing the bridge with many others is Roger Drexel ; 
he is walking apart as much as may be, and is evidently 
alone. 

He has dropped his attire of fashionable cut and make 
and is roughly dressed like some artisan in his working 
clothes. His face is grave even to anxiety, and he glances 
about him constantly, scanning each passing face. He 
has been in Chicago some thirty-six hours — after having 
been delayed ten — and in spite of sleepless effort he has 
found no trace of Savareis and Hosmer. He had visited 
all the haunts where they might naturally appear, has 
searched hotel registers, has sent out detectives in plain 
clothes, but all to no purpose. And now he is hurrying 
toward that spot which is neither court nor square — that 
great oblong open space where the street widens out, 
to narrow again suddenly at an intersecting street. 
Homely ground enough to-day; unhonored and unsung, 
with no lofty palaces to serve as landmarks; a place of 

482 


THE HAYMARKET 


433 


homely sights and often of unsavory smells; a “lowly 
mart of trade;” and yet a place which in one short even- 
ing isjto become historical — the scene of a world exe- 
crated crype, a widely lamented tragedy — the Haymar- 
ket. 

Already the street is filled with a surging crowd, and 
here and there a blue-coated officer is seen silently 
watchful. 

As he nears the edge of the restless mass, Drexel 
slackens his pace and glancing about him, comes to a 
halt. There is nothing to be seen here and little to be 
heard, but it is a good place for a rendezvous and that 
is what it is. 

He has hardly halted before a man has joined him, 
and before they have exchanged greetings, another ap- 
proaches. 

“Well?” says Drexel at the approach pf this second 
man, “what is it?” 

“Nothing more sir, Pm sorry to say, ” is the respectful 
reply. “The two strangers are with Schubert and are on 
their way here in a carriage; Schubert would never stay 
away from such a meeting as this, and it’s certain, from 
what Halls overheard, that the three intend to spend 
their evening together — if only they prove to be the 
right parties.” 

“We must find that out at once,” Drexel says promptly. 

“Yes, sir; but if you will allow me to suggest — ” 

"Go on.” 

“I was about to say that I think I can find out who the 
speakers are to be, by making my way over to the place 
where you see those colored lights. If Schubert is to be 
one of the speakers I shall then know about where to 
take? you. But — if as some of us fear, this is to be a 
boisterous meeting, I don’t believe Schubert will be one 
of the speakers.” 


484 


MOWA 


“Why?” 

“Because the man^s a born fire-bug and dynamiter. If 
there’s dirty work to be done, Schubert’s role will be to 
go about through the crowd stirring up bad blood, shout- 
ing out incendiary doctrine whenever he thinks himself 
far enough away from the police. That man’s dangerous. 
Shall I locate Schubert, sir?” 

“Yes, if you can without too much loss of time. We 
will wait here." 

Almost as he spoke the officer had disappeared in the 
crowd. Drexel turned to the companion who had joined 
him first. 

“Do you anticipate trouble?" he asked. 

“We hardly know, sir; some of the leaders here are 
rampant fellows, men whose sentiments are enough to cause 
their arrest if publicly uttered as they may be here to- 
night. There’s been a deal of ugly talk and all sorts of 
rumors, some threats, too, publicly uttered but not easy 
to trace home. There’s an uneasy feeling among them 
that are ‘inside’ and claim to know what’s in the wind. 
That’s about all I know, except that there’s an unusually 
large detail of patrolmen on duty here, and others in 
reserve at the station. I’m sure I hope all will go off 
in tall talk — there’s bound to be that. This would be 
an ugly place for a riot, so ill-lighted and sort of 
hemmed in." 

Drexel makes no reply. He is watching the con- 
stantly growing crowd and thinking shudderingly of 
those packages carried by his two unsuspecting friends, 
at the behest of the “council." 

“See," says the other after a time, “they are crowding 
over that way, toward those high steps and the carts 
there and, yes, some of the speakers are gathering there 
now. Jupiter!" as the noise increased and the crowd 
surged toward the place that he had indicated, “look at 


THE HAY MARKET 


485 


them! they’re a tough crowd. What per cent, of Ameri- 
can citizens will you find there, do you think?” 

"The class of ‘American citizens’ which keeps you and 
your follows busy, and gives you most trouble, will be 
fairly well represented I fancy," replies Drexel. 

"Right you are," said the officer, quickly adding, 
“and yet these fellows are here, they say, 'in the interest 
of the down-trodden workingman’ — " 

"Hush!" said Drexel, and the speaker turns to see his 
brother officer close beside him. 

"Come,” says the latter, and turns at once and begins 
to force his way through the edge of the crowd closely 
followed by the other two. Somebody is speaking to 
such as came to listen, standing upon the steps of a 
corner building; but he is not a star of magnitude, and, 
except for a small circle near him, is quite unheeded, 
the clamor growing in volume all about them. The 
three men have made their way around the crowd until 
they have skirted it on three sides and are now upon its 
western border and are near the place where the street 
becomes narrow. Here the leader pauses and says: 

"They came in a carriage, as I thought they would, 
and down that street,” pointing down a side street — "they 
have driven down that way" — pointing down a diverging 
street, “and northward, and the carriage was surrounded 
in a moment by a dozen or more men who seemed to be 
waiting. They seemed likely from their movements to 
stop there long enough to settle some question which 
evidently interested them, and so I came for you; ” he 
moved away a few paces and spoke to a policeman stand- 
ing at his post. 

"That carriage there still?” the officer nodded and the 
scout beckoned to his companions. "Come,” he said 
"now is your chance. You can have a look at them, at 
least. We can’t get very close yet." 


48 « 


MOIhlA 


"Let me see them," said Drexel, "and the rest must 
hap as it will." 

A little elbowing and pushing and they came out into 
more open space and turning the corner saw just beyond 
and so near a gas lamp as to seem really conspicuous 
an open carriage in which sat four men. There was a 
crowd about it and Drexel who now assumed the leader- 
ship, saw at once that to approach within speaking dis- 
tance would be quite impossible. 

"Let us pass slowly," he said, and they moved on. 

Drexel went by the carriage without a sign of interest 
on his face but he stopped short a little beyond in the 
shadow. 

"You were right," he said to the officer who had 
played the scout, "those are the men!" There was 
silence a moment and then he added: "And now gentle- 
men, I am going to trust you as I have been assured that 
1 can. Those two young men are dupes, sent here by 
their superiors. They are the bearers of packages which 
they have been told, contain revolutionary pamphlets to 
be distributed among these people but which I fully be- 
lieve, really contain dynamite bombs, manufactured by 
a pair of old Russian nihilists. Those who sent these 
young men, mean that they shall not return to New 
York. There is an ugly plot behind all this, but of that 
I can say no more. I am here to save those two men and 
to prevent, if possible, the use of the dynamite; shall I 
have your help?" 

"We are at your service, Mr. Hurst," said the spokes- 
man for the two. A few minutes after they have scattered 
and are mingling with the crowd near the carriage. 

And now the men about the carriage move a little 
away just enough to allow the horses to go forward at 
a slow pace, and it proceeds slowly, surrounded by its 
hedging escort, until it has rounded the corner and halts 


THE H/lYM/iRKET 


487 


again, this time in the shadow and well into the throng 
as possible. As before, the press about the carriage is 
impenetrable. 

And now a little aloof, but where they can plainly see 
the vehicle, the three men draw together again. 

“Well," says Drexel, hastily, “what have you discov- 
ered?" 

“I think those fellows are acting in concert in sur- 
rounding the carriage in that manner. They want to 
prevent the young fellows from escaping." 

"Or to keep some one, an officer perhaps, from ap- 
proaching them," hazards number two. 

“Or both," adds Drexel. “Is that all?" 

“No," says number two, “I got near enough to see 
that they had in the carriage two valises of medium size ; 
perhaps it is them that they are so anxious to guard." 

“If I could get those valises into my possession," says 
Drexel, “this meeting might go on as it would." And 
then the three draw aside again while he gives his final 
instructions. 

They are to separate, mingle with the crowd, and strive 
each as he best can, to get within speaking distance of 
the two young men. 

"Half a dozen words will be sufficient, " Drexel assures 
them, and then he whispers to each the potent words, 
adding, “they will understand and give or allow you to 
take those dangerous valises," and so they separate. 

Who of all the vast throng can tell the complete story 
of that fateful night. How under the lash of fiery 
tongues, the swaying crowds were aroused and urged on. 
How enthusiasm became aggressive, oaths and threats, 
cheers, groans and hisses being mingled. 

And still those serpent-tongued apostles of revolution, 
those disciples of the gospel of intimidation and force 
lashed the air with plausible sophistry and roused that 


488 


MOIN/4 


mass of humanity to uproariousness until order is no 
more, the law is openly defied, and for the first time in 
a free country, anarchy openly shows its teeth; and now 
these orator's, whose trade is anarchy, may cease from 
their labors. They have wrought the mass before and 
about them into a brawling, insubordinate mob, no longer 
to be restrained by voice or peaceful measures. It surges 
and breathes defiance, and menaces the gallant sons of 
the city who have responded to a call for protection, 
for the vindication of outraged and insulted law and 
order. 

“Jn the name of the law 1 command you to disperse. ” 

No need to repeat the history of the Haymarket slaugh- 
ter. It has been written in blood, upon the field, in the 
hospital, on the scaffold! 

While the roar of the death-dealing missiles still 
echoed in their ears, and the groans and shrieks of the 
injured still rent the air, a gallant deed, unseen and 
unrecorded, was enacted, in the midst of the fire and 
blood and disaster all around. 

Savareis and Hosmer had been so closely surrounded 
as to render approach impossible, but a little before the 
explosion, they had descended from their carriage, and 
with the mysterious valises in hand, and closely guarded, 
had been conducted through the edge of the crowd, until 
they had reached a position near the place where the 
main body of police had finally formed. 

Just how it came about may never be known, but at 
the instant of the explosion, Savareis and Hosmer stood 
for the first time alone. A moment before, Drexel, 
watching not far away, had seen a stir about his two 
friends; there seemed to be a discussion and an argu- 
ment. Then a swift movement, a pushing and crowd- 
ing, a changing of places, and a closer pressing about 
the two young men. Then the crowd opened suddenly 


THE HHYMHRKET 


489 


at one point, and a man, bearing one of the two val- 
ises, dashed through and out of sight. 

Instantly, before the crowd could close up again, 
Drexel had hurled himself among them. He had a 
glimpse of Rene and Hosmer standing together, and he 
called to them over the heads about him. Then there 
was another surging of the crowd. He saw a man leap 
toward the two and strive to wrest the valise from their 
hands, saw their resistance and had a glimpse of an arm 
shooting out, of the assailant reeling. In the same in- 
stant he realized that the crowd was thinning, and he 
reached the side of his friends just as that awful explo- 
sion roared out above the yells of the leaders, the com- 
mands of the officers, and the babel of the mob. 

What had happened? 

When Roger Drexel was able to pause and consider, 
after what seemed an age of violent breathless action, 
this is what he could recall: As the crowd fell away 
from Hosmer and Savareis, he had bounded toward them 
and the two detectives were equally prompt. Then there 
had come a moment of chaos, that shower of missiles. 
He had seen Rene Savareis with the valise clutched in 
his hand, reel, struck by a flying something, had shout- 
ed out a command, and snatched away the fatal valise 
as Savareis went down. 

Then — for long afterwards Drexel shuddered, brave 
man though he was, at the thought of the horror 
that followed. With the flying fire all around him, 
and that bag of death-dealing bombs in his hand, he 
dashed away, bearing at deadliest risk, the missiles of 
destruction, out of the way of the fiery fragments. 
On he went with his burden, no one heeding him now, 
until he was away beyond the outskirts of the panic- 
stricken mob. And then he paused to look about him. 
Just beyond was a cottage, dark and seemingly tenant- 


490 


MOINA 


less. He lost no time in putting his unsafe burden care- 
fully on the inside of the cottage fence, in the corner 
farthest from the gate. Then he was back again, and 
somehow found himself once more beside Rene Savareis, 
who had been carried out of the street and was being 
supported by Hosmer and one of the detectives. 

Then came the hideous moments of helpless waiting 
until a carriage had been secured by the absent detect- 
ive and brought as near as possible. They carried their 
insensible burden to the waiting vehicle and there 
Drexel left them, stealing back to the place where he 
had deposited the bombs. Securing them he never 
paused until they were safely locked in his own room, 
at the hotel where he had bidden them carry Savareis. 

Ah! the blood that flowed that night! The sighs and 
groans, the suffering and sorrow and loss that followed 
that foul deed! The dawn broke upon a city in mourn- 
ing for her brave guardians of the peace, her gallant 
policemen dead and dying. 

In the morning, Rene Savareis lay between life and 
death, with more to fear than to hope for. And it was 
found that one of the detectives received an ugly wound 
upon the head. 

When Drexel opened the valise, which he did by care- 
fully cutting off the leather, he found, as he had ex- 
pected, half a dozen large bombs of the most deadly 
and destructive sort, the work of an expert. 

What had become of the others, that had been wrested 
from the hands of Savareis and Hosmer in the crowd? 
Was it one or more of these that had dealt out death 
and terror there in the Haymarket? And were these 
others perhaps reserved for some future occasion? No 
one ever knew, although, not long after, some bombs 
were found in the home"' of an arrested anarchist. In 
the absence of positive knolwedge Roger Drexel kept his 


THE HAYMARKET 


491 


own counsel. He turned over the bombs in his own pos- 
session to the two detectives who had aided him so 
efficiently, first showing Kenneth Hosmer the manner of 
‘document’ he had been carrying about, and before 
another night had fallen was on his way back to New 
York, leaving. Rene Savareis still unconscious, and with 
little hope for his recovery, but watched over by Hosmer, 
and secure of all that human skill could do to hold him 
back from the open jaws of death. Other lives were 
menaced perhaps. Others were helpless and in need of 
him. And so, wan and sleepless, he turns his face to the 
east and to Moina. 


CHAPTER LXXIII 


10 THE RESCUE 

When Little Norton had left Madeline at the corner 
where Crashaw and Passauf had parted company, and 
set out in pursuit of the latter, it was not without some 
uneasiness. He feared for her, for he recognized the 
fact that she, and not himself, was now shadowing the 
chief conspirator. But his task was plain before him, 
and he followed Passauf, easily eluding his watchfulness 
and keeping him plainly in sight and at close range. 

He traced him home and then went to Minna’s home. 
Madeline’s abrupt departure had not been a surprise to 
Minna but when she did not return at noon she began to 
feel anxious. She went to the window and placed 
therein a potted geranium bearing a single scarlet 
blossom, the prearranged signal by which to summon 
Little Norton from the street at need. 

He had been at his post for some time, and came 
promptly, but he was unable to help her, and what he 
had to say only increased her anxiety. As for himself 
Little Norton was strangely uneasy and provokingly at 
a loss. 

As evening approached Minna again put out her signal; 
this time it was answered by the boy Toole, who had been 
prevailed upon to leave his post at the deserted house 
on B — Street, and relieve Norton in the little court. 

Toole explained the situation in his own peculiar way. 
"Pve been on the watch in another place," he began. "1 
guess you were! ’’ 

492 


TO THE RESCUE 


493 


“Yes; B — Street.” 

“Yes’m; but Little Norton says I'm watching an 
empty house. And I had made up my mind to that my- 
self. But all the same I’d a stuck to biz till I was 
called off if Little Nort. hadn’t made me see that I’d 
been doin’ more good by turning to and helping him 
out. He said he’d be responserbull. ” 

But Minna was in haste. 

If the little man comes back before I do, tell him 
this: “I’m going to the Occidental, where Miss Payne 
boards, and see if she is there, and I shall go and come 
as fast as I can. " 

And this she did. , After visiting Madeline’s apart- 
ments, and being assured that she was not there, tapped 
at another door and was ushered into the presence of 
the Princess Sacha. 

But the lady could tell her nothing, and was pained 
and startled at what Minna had to relate. And poor 
Minna hastened back to her post, more anxious and 
apprehensive than before, leaving a new fear to weigh 
down the already heavy heart of the princess. 

Madam Orloff was better. She had rallied somewhat, 
and had been placed under the care of a skilled nurse, 
having grown strangely docile in the hands of Dr. 
Vaughan, and the princess was left with time to think 
and to wonder. 

Taken by itself, the absence of such a woman as Mad- 
eline Payne would not, could not, be a thing to alarm 
her, but the fact that Madeline had set out to follow up, 
what she believed to be a clue to the whereabouts of 
Moina La Croix, and that she had neither returned or 
communicated with her friends was cause sufficient for 
uneasiness. 

What could she do? What could she do? She had 
put all power, all authority out of her hands, and she did 


494 


MOINA 


not even know how or where to communicate with 
Dissett. He might yet be found at his lodgings, per- 
haps, but she dared not send a messenger, and how 
could she go herself? 

At eight o’clock Dr. Vaughan came. All day he had 
been searching for news of Drexel, in obedience to Mad- 
eline’s instructions, had held himself reluctantly aloof 
from the place where he had supposed her to be. 

What the princess had to tell drove the blood from 
his face. 

"I shall go there at once,” he said. 

"I was sure you would," she cried; ‘‘I could hardl 3 Mvait 
for your coming. I have never felt more helpless. And 
you will come back to me at once?” 

"As quickly as possible, for 1 must see my patient 
again to-night.” 

He saw the fever in her cheeks and the look of 
strained anxiety in her eyes, and, without understanding 
such extreme solicitude, sympathized with it. 

It was a long drive, but at half-past nine he was back. 

His face told its own story. There was no news of 
Madeline. And the two sat down opposite each other to 
discuss the strange situation, and evolve, if possible, 
some hopeful plan of action. 

As they talked they came to a better understanding, 
but nothing helpful came of it all until, at last, the 
princess arose with a look of one suddenly resolved upon 
something unpleasant. 

"One thing I can do,” she said, "and I will. I know 
where I may perhaps find a man who can help u^, but I 
must go to him. He would not come perhaps, if I were 
to send. I must ask your escort, and will you call a 
carriage at once?” 

Wondering, but compliant and unquestioning he 


TO THE RESCUE 


495 


went. As he handed her into the carriage a distant 
clock struck ten. 

Almost in silence they drove to the quiet street where, 
not many days before, she had sought out Dissett in 
his den. Arrived at the entrance she left him at the 
carriage door and entered alone. Again the woman met 
her almost at the entrance attracted hither by the sound 
of the carriage without. But this time she did not 
mount the stairs, for the rooms above were tenantless. 
Dissett had gone. 

When they were again in the carriage the princess 
said, after a few moments of pondering: 

‘‘1 can see but one thing to be done, that is for you to 
go directly to the place where Miss Payne left this morn- 
ing. If she returns she will come there. If she needs 
help she will send there." 

"You are right," he said quickly. "Under the circum- 
stances I think I may ignore her commands to remain 
aloof. I will go at once." 


It was nearing midnight when Roger Drexel arrived 
in the city, weary and travel worn, but animated and 
stimulated by his thoughts of Moina, his anxieties, 
and hopes and fears. 

He longed to fly, first and fast, to the place where he 
had parted with her, and where he supposed her still to 
be. But prudence, and a sense of duty alike forbade. 
To approach the La Croix’ without some knowledge 
of what had occurred during his absence would be a 
blunder, perhaps a risk. And he must run no risk where 
Moina was concerned. But, late as it was, he could not 
be inactive. The princess would receive him, and it 
was to her he must get information; to her and Mad 
eline. 

"And so it was the princess received his card from the 


496 


MOIS/i 


hands of the night porter, and, five minutes afterward, 
she was pouring into his ear the story of the double dis- 
appearance. An hour later Drexel met Norton. 

"Norton, you’re the man I want," said Drexel. 
"What can you tell me? I have just heard that Miss 
La Croix and Miss Payne are both mjssing. ” 

"You had better join me, Hurst. I am shadowing Jules 
Passauf, I think, I am quite sure that he will lead us 
to the La Croix." 

"What is he doing here?" 

"I don’t know. He came with a little old man, a 
stranger — queer but well dressed. They entered the cafe 
together." 

"I will go with you," said Drexel. 


CHAPTER LXXIV 


• AT THE LAST MOMENT 

When Madeline recovered consciousness, she found that- 
she had been carried back to the rear room and placed 
upon the couch, and she opened her eyes to see Moina 
and the old woman bending over her. 

She was kept a close prisoner all that day with the La 
Croix’s. From the conversation of her jailers she learned 
that they were determined to kill them all. “Moina,” 
she says, toward evening when all were aware of their 
fate “all may soon be over. Be courageous. Mr. La 
Croix, you are a brave man. They threaten our lives; 
mine first, then yours. See! I have secured this door 
in the only way possible, but it can be broken down 
easily. And I have this for further defense,” holding up 
the dagger. 

Madeline was as pale as Moina now; but both were 
calm. Brave blood flowed in these girlish veins. 

“And I,” said Moina, “have this bar, papa.” 

"They are whispering together,” said Madeline ^ with 
her ear against the door. 

“Open that door,” called the voice of the woman. 

And Mr. La Croix answered: “We knoiv your plots. 
We are aware that it is useless to ask for mercy. But 
I would make terms with you.” 

“What terms?" 

“Let these two young women go from this place free 
and unhurt, and they pledge themselves not to denounce 
you. Do this, and I will stay here, to be used as you will. ” 
Moina — 32 497 


498 


MOIN/1 


“Never, papa! ” cried Moina. 

“Never!" cried Madeline’s clear voice. And then en- 
sued one of the strongest of dialogues, the prisoners 
vieing with each other in plans of self-sacrifice and the 
jailers, knowing themselves committed growing more 
and more brutal — the Spider because such was his 
nature, and the woman warming to her role as the con- 
tents of the flask diminished. 

. After this talk there was another silence, then a sound 
from the little store-room. 

“Ah!" whispered Madeline, “they aie going to batter 
down the door. At least let us strike one blow." 

Mr. La Croix had armed himself with a slat from the 
bed but he had little strength to wield it. And with a 
groan of anguish he saw the two brave girls prepare for 
the struggle. Already they had called loudly for help 
and now as the shuffle of feet told of the approach of 
the enemy, Moina sprang upon the chair. 

Thump! Crash! Three times the great block of wood 
was dashed against the door which, strengthened by the 
table behind it, resisted. But at every thump a pane of 
glass came jingling down from the window and standing 
with her head at the opening just made, Moina sent her 
voice ringing through the night: 

“Help! Help! Help!” 

“Quick Moina, they are coming again; stand close to 
the wall and hold your bar ready fora blow. Don't get 
before the door. If they throw themselves against the 
door with great force and the door gives way suddenly, 
as I think it will, one of them may lose his balance. If 
I could get one of them under my knife — " 

“Quick!" echoed Miles La Croix excitedly; “careful, 
my darling, it is a chance. God help you! God help you! 
One more appeal to man, children, then turn to God." 

Once again both voices blend in a loud cry: 


AT THE LAST MOMENT 


m 


“Help! Help! Help!’’ 

Outside the battery is ready for a final assault; in the 
middle of the room stands the old woman and the Spider. 
In front of them, horizontally held, is a huge block of 
wood and both of the steady arms are strained to hold 
it at the best height. 

“Aim here,’’ said the Spider, indicating upon the door, 
and then stepping back to his place beside her. “One 
more blow must bring it down. Now remember, don’t 
get in my way. 1 shall let go as soon as the ram 
strikes. ’’ 

On a chair close beside the door lies his pistol and that 
belonging to the woman is similarly placed opposite. 

“Throw all your force into the blow. That’s your 
part. I’ll look out for the shooting, ” says the Spider. 

“Shall you shoot them?’’ 

“Instantly. It’s too late for trifling. Now get ready; 
one, two, three!’’ 

The door already is weakened, the bolt is shattered, the 
hinges half gone, the panels split and splintered. 

As they stand ready, the two girls, send out their last 
cry for aid : 

“Help! Help! Help!" 

The two demons poise their battering ram — 

A white haired man lifts clasped hands aloft, “O God 
the Helper, God the Saviour, have mercy, have pity. ” 

“Once more and it is done, ” says the Spider. 

There is a forward rush, a cry, a blow, a pistol shot. 
Then cries that come neither from the besiegers nor be- 
seiged ; a voice outside the window, crashing of glass 
and splintering of wood, and above it all, agonized, in- 
tense, a voice calling: 

“Moina! Moina!” And over and through all else floats 
the answer back, “Here! Here! I am here!” 

The bar of iron drops from Moina’ s hands and she 


500 


MOIhlA 


falls senseless. As nearly as it could be told, this is 
what happened: 

Faithful to the Spider’s suggestion, the woman Kathe- 
rine had dashed herself and the block of wood against 
the fated door with force and fury. It went inward wi :h 
a sudden crash and so great was the woman’s momen- 
tum, she was carried forward and prostrated face down- 
ward. It was all done in an instant, but in that instant 
Madeline Payne had hurled herself upon her and was 
standing over her with uplifted knife. 

"Dare to come one step nearer, and I plunge your knife 
into this woman’s body!” 

The Spider caught up his pistol and in spite of her 
words, he thrust his arm through the door-way and pulled 
the trigger. But his aim went far amiss, for Moina 
standing close against the wall with upraised bar had 
brought it down upon his wrist, and the wretch sprang 
back with a yell, rushed toward the outer room, and 
straight into the arms of — Little Norton. 

And so it was when Drexel and Dr. Vaughan burst into 
that dingy kitchen^ their eyes were greeted with a 
strange tableau. Madeline standing pallid and stern 
above the prostrate woman, with the dagger poised in 
her hand; Miles La Croix, still sustained by the excite- 
ment of the hour but speechless from contending emotion, 
and Moina so still and white that Drexel cried out in 
terror and was instantly at her side gathering her in his 
arms. At the same moment Dr. Vaughan half lifted the 
fallen Katerine and, consigning her to the man behind 
him, turned to Madeline with outstretched hands. Let- 
ting the knife fall as it would, she placed her own within 
them, swaying as about to fall. He threw an arm about 
her, and held her while he looked deep into her eyes. 

"Madeline Payne,” he cried, "I have been well nigh 
mad this night! Tell me are you unhurt! Have these 


AT THE LAST MOMEhll 


501 


brutes treated you ill? What is the meaning ot \.his Hor- 
rible scene?” 

A great sob rises in her throat, there is no more need 
for courage and Madeline becomes a very woman. 

"Oh!” she cries, “if you had been ten minutes later 
you might now be looking upon my dead face. They 
were about to murder us.” 

"You! Oh, my darling, my darling! Curse them, 
curse them all! ” cries this staid, self-controlled doctor, 
holding her closer still, as if to do so was a matter of 
course. 

When Moina^s eyes open, she finds her lover bending 
over her. 

"Oh, Fernand,” she sighs, "is it all over — the danger, 
and horror; will you take us away?” 

"At once, my beloved. The troubles are at an end. 
We have only to make your father well once more, and 
to be happy together.” 


CHAPTER LXXV 


A CLEARER ATMOSPHERE 

How did it come about, this opportune rescue? 

In order to insure prompt obedience to his commands, 
Dissett had kept Passauf company upon his errand to 
the princess who had luckily arrived after her fruitless 
search for Dissett just in time to receive his messenger. 

“I shall wait for you outside,” said Passauf’ s stern 
master. 'T know what she will do when she gets that 
message, and you and I do not leave this house until I 
see the proof that she has been told the truth. This is 
your last chance.” 

But Passauf was already conquered. Without this 
precaution he would have told the truth to madam la 
princess. 

That Dissett understood the princess was speedily 
proved. 

She came sweeping down to the parlor almost as their 
retreating heels rang hastily, and ordered the best driv- 
er and fastest horse to be had, “instantly.” 

“I knew it,” said Dissett when they had watched her 
drive away. “Come. You are to do me one more favor, 
and then we part.” 

“What is it?” 

“Only to return to the room of 5^our friend M. Cra- 
shaw and bring down to me something you will find 
there.” 

Outwardly calm, though he was, Dissett was inwardly 
chafing. In the excitement of the awful last moments 

502 


A CLEARER ATMOSPHERE 


503 


in Crashaw’s room, little wonder he had gone away and 
forgotten to take with him the death-dealing cigars. 
Now he had but one thought, to get them back and 
quickly. Passauf was past remonstrance. They hast- 
ened on unconscious that not far behind them two 
ke^n detectives were running them down. When they 
arrived at the place, Dissett stopped in the shadow near 
the entrance. 

“Go up,” he said. “You will find two small foreign- 
looking cigars upon the table under the lamp. Bring 
them to me, and no matter what else you find there 
come away at once and quietly.” 

Sullen and wondering, Passauf entered the building 
and Dissett stood motionless in the shadow; a little 
further on two other still figures watched, as keenly as 
he, the lighted door of entrance. “We’re all right,” Little 
Norton whispered; “I know this place. It’s furnished 
rooms and has no other entrance, being semi-respectable.” 

The five minutes had not expired when a figure darted 
out of the door-wa}^ and joined Dissett. 

“Well?” said the latter. 

For a moment there was silence between them; then — 

“Did you know what I should find there?" hissed Pas- 
sauf. 

“What did you find?” coldly. 

“A dead man.” 

“Heart disease?” 

“I have keen eyes. On the table directly before him 
was the mark of a dagger point." 

Dissett put his hand to his pocket and drew it out 
with something shut within its grasp. 

“Move a little nearer the light,” he said. 

For answer Passauf produced a match and lighted it. 

“That will do. Now look! ” He opened his hand and 
Passauf saw with starting eyes the tiny hemisphere 


504 


MOINA 


which the princess had placed before M. Lugas at their 
last meeting. "Do you understand now?" 

"Yes," submissively. 

"You knew me years ago, Jules Passauf. That man 
caused the death of my brother and my dearest friend ; 
still had it not been for my oath I doubt if this hand 
could have taken his life." 

"Then he too, was condemned?" 

"Yes; and now the cigars?" 

Passauf started. "They were not there," he said. 

"Not there?" 

"No. It was in peering about for them that I found 
the dagger mark. Stop; I think I know who took them! " 

"Do you mean — " 

"Lugas. He is certain to pounce upon a fine cigar. 
Shall we try to get them from him?" 

"No, Passauf; there is a fate in it. Did he take 
aught else?" 

"Yes; he rifled Crashaw’s pockets and took certain 
papers; bank certificates — " 

"Belonging to the order?" 

"Yes. Am I dismissed?" 

For a moment Dissett seemed to have forgotten him. 
Then he said: "Go; and remember to-morrow midday 
must find you out of the city." 

And as Passauf turned and moved away he added, "As 
I shall be; as I shall be." 

Passauf moved away slowly, like one undecided as to 
his destination, and before Dissett had stirred from his 
place, two forms sprang past him, and he saw the taller 
of the two place a hand upon Passauf’ s shoulder. There 
was a moment’s parley, and venturing a little nearer, he 
heard one of the strangers say: 

"That is all we ask of you. If you wish to leave the 
city in the morning you had better not refuse." 


A CLEARER ATMOSPHERE 


505 


"Come then," said Passauf and the three set off across 
the street. "Going to take a cab," murmured Dissett. 
And he too sought the cab-stand. 

The hand upon his shoulder had not startled Passauf. 
He had taken it for that of Dissett but the voice that 
spoke close to his ear had electrified him. 

He recognized it, and ejaculated feebly: 

"Makofskil " 

"Makofski no longer. I am Hurst the detective, and 
I arrest you in the name of the law. I give you a chance 
between sleeping in jail to night, or sleeping in a com 
fortable bed. You know where Miles La" Croix and his 
daughter have been concealed. Lead us to them, or go to 
prison." 

Passauf was growing desperate, but he assented. The 
reader knows the result. 

Why linger over what followed that happy rescue. 

The Spider and Katerine were led to jail. 

. As Norton emerged from the alley what was his sur- 
prise to see two men turn away from the carriage win- 
dow. With a bound he was beside the carriage. 

"Madam, those men — " 

"Are both known to me, sir," said the princess with a 
touch of haughtiness, and with this he was obliged to 
be satisfied. 

In that brief interval of waiting the Princess Sacha 
Orloff and Mr. Dissett had met for the last time on 
earth. 

While the princess looked and listened at the carriage 
window, two men approached, and the foremost doffing 
his hat uttered her name. 

Turning quickly she recognized Jules Passauf. The 
other stood in the shadow as if to avoid recognition. 

"Passauf I What does this mean? You have followed 
us here! " 


506 


MOINA 


"True, madam," he spoke like one reciting a none too 
well learned lesson. ’T bring you a message from Mr. 
Dissett. Knowing your wishes he bids me inform you 
that your friends are now safe, and that Mr. Hurst and 
his friends will do well and perhaps avoid an unpleasant 
complication if they remain,away from M. Lugas and M. 
Crashaw and make no further move until you hear from 
or of them. That your mind may be at ease, he bids 
me tell you that before you received the talisman these 
two had been condemned. Adieu." 

He moved back a pace and then spoke again. "Madam, 
put out your hand. Here is something no other must 
receive. " 

She put out her gloved hand. Another hovered over 
it an instant and then pressed something down upon the 
palm. Then without a word the two figures vanished in 
the darkness. > 

"Strange! ” spoke the princess. 

"Madam,” called Minna, "how odd! It was the little 
man who hung back and never spoke, that put that thing 
in 3'our hand.” 

Bending to examine the package the princess found 
that it was the talisman. 

In the small hours of the morning a strange party ar- 
rived at the Occidental. And there Drexel told his story. 

He told of his meeting with Moina, in Madeline’s 
parlor; he had seen the spy in butternut, and both had 
followed her home. And then he took up the story of 
Mr. Lord’s experiences with the knife and the letters. 
Then came the tale of the dynamite bomb, Mr. Lord’s 
illness, the search for the flower boy, and the finding of 
little Frank Price. He told of his alliance with Made- 
line, and of their growing surprise, and how by degrees 
they had connected Crashaw, Savareis and La Croix with 
the circle. 


A CLEARER. ATMOSPHERE 


507 


Then having permission from the princess, he connect- 
ed her with the story. 

Link by link he wove the chain. The chance finding 
of Joesph Parker, the setting of Johnny Deegan on the 
trail of little Hans, the illness of Frank Price and his 
pitiful story. How he had written to foreign detectives 
and others; what he had learned from them, and how at 
last he had bearded the lion in his den, and as Fernand 
Makofski, made himself one of their household. 

“Oh," she cried, “I understand now. They suspected 
you then. That is why you left the packet in my care 
that night when you went to see the princess!" 

“That night" he said “I made my famous bargain 
with 'the princess, and convinced myself that she was 
one of the foreign circle. But how did you know of 
this — " 

She blushed rosily and dropped her eyes. "From 
papa," she said, "in his sleep." And then she clasped 
his arm. “Oh, what danger you were in!" • 

“My anxiety was as great as my danger, Moina, for 
until that night of our encounter in your father^ s study 
I was not certain of you. I feared that you were in 
sympathy with the circle." 

“Ah," she sighed, “those horrible days! I began to 
understand the wickedness on foot when papa com- 
menced to ramble in his sleep. And I tried to do what 
I could. Once I wrote a letter of warning to Mr. Lord 
and for fear that Madeline might see it and know the 
writing, I made Margot pen the address. And then I 
overheard a talk between Crashaw and papa, and so I 
knew that more mischief was to be done. I heard the 
names of two who were to be injured in some way, and 
fearing that I had not got them right, I went that night 
to the study to look for them on the list of ‘enemies to 
the cause,* the black list.” 


508 


MOINA 


"And they owe to you the safety of their property, 
perhaps their lives. While I — oh, Moina, that night 
when I stood one against five, you saved me. Moina 
there is one thing that I cannot yet fully understand. 
Why were you so horribly afraid of Crashaw. It was 
something concerning Mr. Lord." 

"I knew so well that he was threatened and I was de- 
termined to thwart them. One night I heard papa rave 
about Mr. Lord. ‘I will be the one to go/ he said. 
‘That business must end.^ The next night he went 
out alone and returned very late, and talked of ‘see- 
ing Mr. Lord,’ of ‘secret and safe.’ The next day 
came the news of the murder of that poor footman. 
That was Crashaw’ s chance. He frightened me into 
consenting to leave B — Street. I can’t understand 
it yet. But I have thought and prayed, and I 
know, I knew even before you accused that evil old man 
of the crimes, that it was not papa. Yet I feared that 
they might lay it upon him. And that would have been 
his death, with such health as his." 

"My poor darling, your father went there, I do not 
know wh}^ and Crashaw followed him. Mr. Lord was 
away, as you know, and Crashaw knew too well who 
killed the footman. Ah, if we had but understood each 
other ! I entered your B — Street house in disguise to 
serve you as well as others. I too, had taken means to 
warn those victims. It was to learn the circle’s secrets 
that I came among them, and I was not long in learning 
that your father was their tool, their victim. I could 
easily have arrested them but for your father. It was to 
save him that I strove. He is safe now, my darling, 
and health will return soon, let us hope." 

She put her hand upon his. "Sorrow has cleared my vis- 
ion, my friend. I thank God, papa is himself once more. 


A CLEARER ATMOSPHERE 5ro 

But health, strength, he will never have again. I an. 
sure of this." 

His answer was a silent caress ; he could make no 
other, for she had repeated, almost word for v/ord, the 
verdict of Dr. Vaughan. 

While these two talked on, Madeline and the princess 
were coming to a clear understanding. It was Madeline 
who had sought the interview and she plunged into the 
subject at once. 

"There is something on my mind, dear madam, and I 
cannot go on like this, accepting your confidences and 
trusted by you until you have heard the truth. Madam, 
I came here, into this house, because you were here, and 
at the request of Mr. Hurst.” 

"You! Are you a detective, and not Miss Payne?” 

"I am Madeline Payne. Whether I am worthy to be 
called a detective, you may decide.” And she dashed 
the history of her connection with the war upon the 
circle, beginning with her meeting with Moina and the 
others on the ocean, passing from that to Mr. Lord’ scon 
fidences, and following up the narrative, from her point 
of view, ending thus: "There have been times of late, 
when I have thought that my movements, especially my 
interest in Moina La Croix, must excite your suspicion. 
But since your confidence of night before last, which 
I beg of you to believe was not needed to confirm my 
belief in and admiration for you, I could see how your 
own heavy burden of sorrow and suspense must have 
made you blind to all not closely connected with your 
own anxieties. ” 

She stopped and both were silent for a space. Then 
she continued with gentle dignity. 

"Dear madam, I have no excuse to offer. What I have 
done was to serve, perhaps save, a friend. When I be- 
gan, you were to me only a beautiful mystery. Now you 


510 


MOINA 


are a woman whom I esteem, admire and long to call 
my friend. ” 

The princess had listened to her story at first with 
simple surprise, then with growing hauteur. At the end 
her face was turned away, and she sat thus for many 
moments. Then she held out her hand. “After all,” she 
said, “why should I be either angry or surprised? You 
have done only what I would have done in your place. 
Where then do we differ? I was in one sense a spy. I 
have been, in truth, a friend to the cause which Lugas, 
Crashaw and others like them, so unworthily represent. 
I came here to report to those in authority in Europe, 
the movements of their representatives here. But as 
you know it was not patriotism alone which prompted 
me. Under cover of this I hoped to find trace of — you 
know whom; and you know that my work here is done.” 

“But you will not leave us? Not yet?” 

“If Madam Petralowski lives and desires to go back, 
I shall take her. If she dies and is buried here, I shall 
remain — all my days, perhaps. In any case I have done 
with the ‘cause,’ there or here.” 


CHAPTER LXXVI 


FAIR HARBOR 

When Dissett’s strange message had been made known 
to them by the princess, they decided to follow his ad- 
vice to the letter, but she did not make them acquainted 
with the sentence concerning the verdict of condemna- 
tion. 

That evening’s papers contained a paragraph which 
sent Drexel at once to the princess. “Let me read you 
something,” he said, and unfolded a copy of the Bee. 

“Sudden Death. — Suicide or Heart Disease, Which?” 

“At or near noon to-day, the care-taker of the rooms in 
Bassett’s Block, K — Street, entered that occupied by a 
Mr. Rufus Crashaw, an Englishman of means, and found 
him dead in his chair. There were no signs of violence. 
The dead man sat in an easy-chair with his head lying 
forward on the table. He had not been robbed and the 
room was in perfect order.” 

Then followed a string of suggestions, possibilities 
and absurdities. Drexel did not stop to read these, 
but asked sharply: 

“Do you understand this?” 

“Yes: but, so help me heaven, it is unexpected. I may 
tell you all now. The last words spoken by Jules Pas- 
sauf, last night, were these — ” Someone knocked has- 
tily at the outer door and a servant entered. 

“Madam, a Sister of Mercy.” She stepped back and 
made way for a sad-faced Sister. 

5 “ 


512 


MOINA 


"Is this madam the princess?" 

The lady bowed. 

"Madam, Jules Passauf believes himself dying. In 
trying to leave the city he was waylaid, and was taken 
up in the early morning, for dead. He wishes to see 
you, to tell you something. H4 begs you to come at 
once. ’’ 

"Will you go with me?" asked the princess, turning to 
Drexel . 

He bowed assent. 

Jules PassauPs days were numbered, and he told his 
story between groans and gasps for breath — told of his 
dealings with Dissett from the first; of his visit to Cra- 
shaw, of the dagger left in Lugas’ room, of the second 
visit to Crashaw’s room, the finding of the dead man, 
the absence of the poisoned cigars; of how Dissett liad 
followed him when led away by Drexel and Norton, and 
how he had escaped from one to fall into the liands of 
the other. Then of how they had followed the carriage 
of the princess. "It was Dissett," he said, "who put 
the talisman into your hand, though he would not speak. 
He would not trust it to me in the darkness." 

"Passauf," the princess bent over him and spoke low, 
"did he tell you why these men were condemned?" 

"Only this — some one wrote to Sharlan telling him how 
Miles La Croix had been put forward and how behind 
him they were plotting for personal gain and personal 
revenge. Letters were exchanged ; then they commis- 
sioned Dissett to put their authority into your hands and 
to see to it that they two received extreme penalty. He 
was to do with me as he chose." 

He looked from one to the other. "Is Lugas — dead?" 
he whispered; "if he leaves a cigar, it may be some- 
body’s death." 


FAIR HARBOR 


513 


Drexel and the princess exchanged glances. “I must 
see to this," he said. 

Little could be done for Passauf; and when that was 
done, they hastened away. In the carriage, Drexel said: 

"So my letters to Sharlan bore bloody fruit. At a time 
when I felt that being one against many I must use 
every weapon at hand, I wrote to Sharlan, hoping little 
from it, but giving an address. He replied, and I wrote 
again. I told the simple truth, dwelling most on the 
use they seemed to be making of Miles La Croix, and 
detailing certain financial crooked ways. In my last, 
just after Harvey’s murder, I told him two men had lost 
their lives through reckless blundering. Has Dissett 
left the city?” 

"I begin to understand that man,” she said; "he will 
never be seen here or in England again. He has lived 
for years hungering for revenge. Living or dead, we 
have seen him for the last time. I felt it when I found 
in the package which he placed in my hand, his with- 
drawal from the circle, his farewell to it.” 

An hour later two men dressed as policemen entered 
the office of Lugas’ hotel, a small and quiet place, and 
asked for Dr. Lugas. Dr. Lugas had not been seen that 
day but that was not unusual. He often took his meals 
elsewhere. 

"Our business is urgent,” said the spokesman of the 
two. "Show us his room.” 

There was no answer to their repeated knocks and one 
of them bent to the key-hole. 

"The key is inside,” he said; "give us a chair.” He 
mounted upon a chair, looked through the glass of the 
transom and sprang hastily down. "Break in the doer!" 
he exclaimed; "he’s dead.” 

A moment later and the door went crashing in. In 
the table stood the dagger, upright still, and newly set 
Moina — 


514 


MOmA 


a-quivering. Upon the floor, the face upturned, distorted 
and hideous, lay Lugas. No second glance was needed 
to show that he was dead. 

"Quick,” said the first officer, "go call a doctor, or 
some one.” 

Out dashed the clerk and down upon his knees went one 
of the officers beside the stiffened form, and never did 
robber swifter searching against time, while the other 
watched at the door. 

"Thank heaven!” ejaculated the searcher, "some 
man’s life is saved!” and he held up the poisoned cigar. 

Soon the room was filled with horror-stricken people, 
and the two officers withdrew. Their work was done. 

"We will be called as witnesses, Mr. Hurst,” said 
Bates; for these two officers were Bates and Drexel. 

"It can’t be helped, Bates. It was a desperate case 
and there was no other or safer way. We will appear 
and tell what we can." 

"And shall you call yourself Hurst .J’ No one would 
know you with that face.” 

"No, I shall call myself Roger, it’s a part of my name, 
and I don’t think anyone will know me.” 

And so it came about that at the inquest, which made 
a great sensation, more because of the knife than for 
any other reason, the two officers who gave modest and 
brief testimony, were described by the reporters as 
"Officers Roger and Bates.” 


When Tausig and old Katerine found themselves 
about to be sent to jail and clamored for a reason there- 
for — having shrewdly guessed that the names of Miles 
and Moina La Croix and Madeline Payne would be shield- 
ed, if possible — they were struck dumb when told that 
they were jointly charged with manufacturing "for un- 



THE DEATH OF LUGAS.— Moina, p. 614, 


516 


MOINA 


lawful purposes,” dynamite bombs, and that little Hans 
was ready to testify against them. 

When the Spider heard that in addition to this, he 
was held on the charge of a murderous attack upon lit- 
tle Frank Price, who was still alive, but beyond hope of 
recovery, he collapsed utterly. And later when they 
learned that both Lugas and Crashaw were dead, they 
saw disaster staring them in the face and grew abject. 

Then the old woman made full confession of Crashaw’s 
sins, more than of her own, and they learned how ruth- 
lessly he had planned. If he did not come or send his 
messenger by half-past ten. Miles La Croix was to be re- 
moved. 

Passauf lingered only a few days and then his crimes 
were presented before the final tribunal for judgment 
and punishment. 

This news only deepened the gloom in which the Spi- 
der now dwelt. But when a few days later — poor little 
Frank Price having passed painlessly out of life — he found 
himself indicted for murder, the wretched creature could 
no longer face the consequences of his crime. He feigned 
illness, seeming in great pain, and begged for an opiate. 
He was given a safe dose of morphia and when he found 
himself getting drowsy under its influence, he wrapped 
his head in the bedclothes, and with the aid of the pil- 
low, succeeded in sneaking out of existence, smothered 
in aMrugged and muffled sleep— a vile life and a coward’s 
death. 

And now old Katerine played her last card. The 
book containing the account of the circle, and for which 
Crashaw and Passauf had made a fruitless search, had 
been carried away by Miles La Croix and then stolen by 
the old woman, who fancied that it might prove valuable. 

Now, while all wished to see her kept safely out cf 
mischief, they did not choose to tell all that must be 


F/1IR HARBOR 


517 


told, in order to secure for her an adequate punishment. 
And so, after some finesse, they offered her her liberty, 
and she sunk from sight in her own native element, after 
giving up that criminating book of records. 

Officer Bates and his good wife found ample reasons 
to bless the Lord when they lent aid to Roger Drexel, 
and shelter to little Hans, and they gladly consented to 
give the boy a home, where he grew and thrived as a pro- 
tege of Drexel. 

Johnny Deegan, too, came under his special care. The 
boy Toole took him into "partnership " as a boy shadow. 
And Johnny looks forward hopefully to the day when he 
shall become a detective and deservedly famous. 

Joseph Parker had no more cause to regret the failure 
of his first attempt at assassination. Elias Lord never 
did things by halves, and when it came to a question of 
providing for Joseph and his family, he said in his 
characteristic way: 

"Parker is my affair. There is a peculiar bond between 
myself and Joseph. You^ve been running everything to 
your notion, Drexel, but you can’t run this. I have 
bought him a bit of land, and he’s going to be a far- 
mer. ’’ 

The ‘bit of land’ proved to be a respectable farm, and 
Joseph, humbled and grateful, turned his back upon 
the ‘unions’ and found his troubles over. 

The Occidental, as Mr. La Croix grew less of an 
invalid and the actor in this long drama recovered from 
fatigue and shock, became the almost daily resort of 
Phillip and Olive Lord, Elias Lord, Mrs. Ralston, and 
Lawyer Fallingsbee. 

There was so much to tell, so many tangles to unravel. 
In a time like this conventionalities were set aside, all 
barriers went down. Miles La Croix and Elias Lord 
found in each other mutual attractions, and Mrs. Rais- 


518 


M0INy4 


ton, when once she was permitted to know Madam 
Petralowski, fell in love with her sweet, sad face, and 
gentle, deprecating ways. Everyday, after the acquaint- 
ance began, found her by madam’s bedside, welcomed 
by the invalid, and giving to the princess a chance 
for much-needed rest. 

One morning she left the patient sleeping and sought 
Doctor Vaughan. "Doctor," she said, "we are between 
two evils. That poor woman’s death may be hastened by 
telling her the truth; it is being hastened by suspense. 
Over and over, sleeping and waking, it is the same cry: 
‘If I only knew! if I only knew!’ ’’ 

"What! would you tell her — " 

"That he is dead. No more than that; not how he 
died. Talk with her yourself, and then judge." 

This he did, and after a sudden change for the worse 
had convinced him that her life at best was only a matter 
of days, Mrs. Ralston told her that her son was dead. 

"God is good,” she murmured. "At last I know I 
shall go to him, and soon. I can wait now, and I can 
rest.” 

And she did, peacefully, in faith and hope, dying at 
last, just as the May birds were singing their first sweet 
song. 

By that time Miles La Croix was able to stand beside 
her flower-strewn coffin and pay his tribute to one whose 
sad story had wrung his heart. 

Moina, into whose hands the reins had now fallen, 
was beginning to talk of looking for a new home, for 
they would never go back to B — Street, and so it 
chanced, a few days after they had buried Madam Petra- 
lowski, that Moina went to Madeline for advice. 

"Moina, let the house wait, dear. I want to talk of 
the poor princess. I am more than anxious about her. 


Fy^IR HARBOR 


519 


now that she has nothing to do but grieve. You know 
that Rene Savareis does not get better as he ought.” 

“Yes.” 

Roger Drexel had made a flying visit to Chicago, and 
had brought back a discouraging report. 

"Well, she thinks she ought to go and help Mr. Hos- 
mer take care of him. She feels sure that he is going 
to die. I know her feelings. And yet she cannot go 
alone. I wish I could go with her. What shall we 
do? ” 

"Let’s ask Roger,” said loyal Moina, and they did. 

One week later Kenneth Hosmer, somewhat pale from 
watching and confinement, but in every other way a 
healthier, happier and wiser young man than he whom 
we first saw dess than a year ago, sat beside the bed 
where lay Rene Savareis, the ghost of his former self. 

Hosmer held an open letter in his hand and he glanced 
up as if from its perusal with a quizzical smile. 

“Well, Rene, old fellow, for a sick man who can’t or 
won’t raise his hand to his mouth, you have contrived 
to stir up business for tinkers and tailors, and goodness 
knows how many more.” 

“What do you mean?” asked the sick man, with a 
faint smile. 

Hosmer looked at him intently. 

“You must rouse him in some way,” the doctor had 
said. “He is going into a decline from simple lack of 
desire to live.” 

Hosmer was about to “rouse” him, but he felt more 
anxious than he dared to show. There was much in that 
letter that he could not read to Savareis, and what he 
said was this: 

“This letter’s from Drexel, and it’s deucedly long. I’ll 
cull you the cream of it in my own choice language. 


520 


MOWA 


To beign 'with, a certain fair lady, desiring to come 
to this city to see — well, say me, felt a doubt about the 
propriety of coming alone. So she applied to the two 
fair ladies known as Moina and Madeline, of whom we 
have heard so much of late. I see- you are growing in- 
terested. ” 

“Yes — go on." 

“Briefly, then, Drexel and Moina are to be married at 
once. But it is to be a double wedding; for Dr. 
Vaughan will lead Madeline to the altar at the same 
time. And, old fellow, note this: Mr. and Mrs. Vaughan 
are coming to Chicago on their conventional wedding trip 
and the Princess Sacha will accompany them. We may 
look for our friends on Friday. Drexel writes me.” 

There were tears in Savareis’ eyes. 

"Hosmer, " he whispers, “I can get better now. This 
proves her friendship, and I can live upon that.” 

“It proves her need of you, Rene. Don’t you see how 
all alone she is. Be her faithful friend now, and trust 
all the rest to time.” 


END 


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